


Miserable Ills

by JadedFalling



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien genitalia, Allusions to Tarsus IV, Anal Sex, Anilingus, Blood, Bones is a Good Friend, Cock Worship, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Delirium, Dubious Consent, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, James T. Kirk Has Issues, Jim Kirk's issues probably have issues, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Non Explicit References, Non-Negotiated Kink, Nurse Spock, Past Drug Use, Rimming, Sick Fic, Sick Jim, Tarsus IV, The Big Reveal, Unfortunate Implications, Vomiting, Whump, dub-con blowjob, everything you'd expect from a tarsus iv fic in the last chapter, my friend's a nurse and that's the closest I get to medical accuracy, slight somnophilia, somewhat graphic descriptions of illness, stomach flu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 80,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedFalling/pseuds/JadedFalling
Summary: Jim gets sick. Besides bringing a bad taste to his mouth, it also causes a reemergence of problems he thought he'd gotten over and brings bad memories to light. It really shouldn't be all that bad, but Spock still insists on sticking by his side so he doesn't suffer alone. And Bones is willing to let Jim ride this one out, until things get worse.





	1. Hungover, maybe

**Author's Note:**

> I got really ill with gastrointestinal upset a few months back after taking care of a sick baby and then eating some truly disgusting food (it tasted delicious going down but in retrospect was a bad idea). Anyway, I had a thought that I could totally write Kirk being sick and all his Issues™ that might surface when dealing with it. It made me feel better. Anyway. I thought it was going to be a short little thing but uh a few months and nearly 10K words later I'm still writing on it. So I figured, may as well make it a multi-chapter thing and start posting a little of what I've got.
> 
> It should also be mentioned that I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm having fun and that's all that matters.
> 
> TAGS WILL BE UPDATED AS I GO
> 
> Beyond all that, enjoy :)

_~∞~_

Jim wasn’t sure what woke him at first. He checked his chronometer on the panel near his bed and found that he was awake nearly two hours earlier than he needed to be; there was still three hours until he had to be on alpha shift.

His esophagus burned. A bout of acid reflux maybe?

He _had_ decided to try that gift of violently purple alcohol from the Rutellelan Queen-Mother last night, given to him at the end of his stay on Rutellel Prime as he represented Starfleet and the Federation during a second-contact peace feast. Though the bottle was small - no less than the equivalent of two shots in the tear-drop shaped vial - it had packed a serious punch. It had been lightly sweet and obscenely thick, though it had the sensation of melting on his tongue as he sipped it.

Jim had barely drunk a third of the bottle before it hit him. Suddenly finding it hard to focus his gaze - as all the colors in his quarters seemed more vibrant - he had reclined on the tiny couch on the other side of his sleeping partition. It was part of the perks of being captain of a starship - a bedroom space containing a bed size of his choice, his closet full of clothes, a small bedside table with drawers, and in the main area a loveseat, a desk, a low coffee table, a comfy chair, and his own food replicator. All that ~~(and more)~~ and the option of water showers in the fresher he shared with his XO and a divided room.

So he had happily lounged on his loveseat, flat on his back with his legs thrown over one arm, and let his mind float. Until he was hungry, _craving_ fruit like he hadn’t eaten in… Like that time when…

The hunger had prompted him to get up and replicate himself a platter of as many fruits he could think of. His balance had been weirdly unaffected (for an alcoholic beverage) as there was zero dizziness even as his head felt pleasantly floaty. With the fruit on the table, he had sipped a bit more of the purple alcohol and eaten every bit on the plate before stripping down to his underwear and passing out in his bed.

Waking up now, maybe it had been a bad idea. His esophagus burned all the way up into his throat and his stomach churned as he shifted to the edge of the bed. He swallowed thickly several times, hoping he wouldn’t puke. It was the worst hangover ever, even with the absence of throbbing pain in his head. Sitting up fully had his gut clenching and twisting (a valid threat).

Jim swallowed back rising bile, breathing heavily through his nausea. He really had to piss. And he needed to be able to make it to the head without puking.

A cramp twisted around his intestines and he stumbled up and toward the fresher. Fuck. If this was the hangover, he’d never touch Rutellelan alcohol ever again.


	2. Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy and Spock find out what's wrong with Jim. No worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! They're all so appreciated! I get all excited and fluttery when I see them in my inbox. Since it's been a while since I've posted any fanfiction the support is gratifying.
> 
> Here's the next part. I hope you all enjoy it.

_~∞~_

At half an hour to alpha shift and no sign of the captain ready to meet him for breakfast in the mess as they usually did, Spock was confused.

After asking for the captain’s whereabouts from the computer and knowing for sure he was still in his quarters, Spock was mildly annoyed at the captain’s failure to be timely.

When the captain failed to answer to the buzzing of his door _and_ the hail of his comm, Spock knew that something must be wrong.

He returned to his quarters and used his override codes to access the captain’s room through their shared fresher.

When his codes failed to open the door, Spock came to the conclusion that he specifically had been intentionally locked out of the captain’s quarters, a most peculiar occurrence after the events with Khan. He and Jim had become closer as friends, giving one another free-standing invitation to one another’s quarters, unless otherwise occupied with company. And seeing as there were 23 minutes until alpha shift, it was most peculiar for Jim to have locked him out. It was very unlikely and against his usual patterns for this to be because of some sort of sexual relation.

Spock hailed Doctor McCoy.

“Spock, what can I do you for?” he grumbled, almost good-natured for the usually aggressively aggravated man. He must have obtained the proper amount of _"morning coffee"_ intake already.

“Doctor, I require your presence in my quarters. It is the Captain. It seems he has locked me out of his quarters and he is late for our usual meeting for breakfast,” Spock explained and heard the CMO scoff.

“Well, Spock, maybe he’s just ignoring _you_ specifically. Have you done something to piss him off recently?”

“Negative, Doctor. As I am aware, we parted amicably at the conclusion of alpha shift yesterday. I met with Lieutenant Uhura for dinner and Jim retired to his quarters. This was the last I’ve heard from him since we did not meet afterward for chess.”

“Alright then, Spock. It’s probably nothing but I’ll come check out the situation. Be there in a few.”

Two-point-four minutes later Doctor McCoy entered Spock’s quarters with his comm unit in hand and a scowl on his face.

“Jim’s not responding to my comm hails either. I asked Scotty and Sulu to try him while I was on my way over, just to see, and same as me. No response,” he said to Spock as he strode purposefully toward the door to the adjoining fresher. The lines on his face were deep and angry. Spock followed and watched him give the computer his override codes to Jim’s door.

As soon as the door opened, three things became immediately clear to Spock. The room was dimly lit, lights at five percent in the open area and completely off past the opaque partition screening the sleeping area from the rest of the quarters. Beyond that, it was also cool, much cooler than Jim comfortably kept. For Spock, it was closer to uncomfortably chilled. And this cold, dark air held the unmistakable scent of sick.

“Computer, increase temperature five degrees,” Doctor McCoy requested quietly as he entered the room. “Raise the lights to twenty percent, too.”

Spock followed the doctor as he carefully approached the sleeping area, stepping around the partition.

“Jim?” McCoy called softly and received no answer.

The sound of heavy breathing became more apparent once Spock laid his eyes on Jim, sleeping soundly on the edge of his bed. He was propped up on his two pillows, head tossed back over the topmost one and body bare except for standard issue, grey boxer-briefs and a wet cloth folded over his forehead and eyes. Doctor McCoy crouched on the floor next to the bed, avoiding the crumpled white shirt on the floor nearby, a curious orange stain peeking out from the folds. Next to the bed, butted up against the small table of drawers at the head of the bed, was a waste receptacle. On top of the table was a half-full glass of water, a soft packet of disposable tissues, and a bowl of some type of partially-eaten, replicated slop.

Doctor McCoy snapped on a pair of gloves and carefully took Jim’s pulse on his wrist.

"Jim, hey, c'mon Jim," the doctor gruffly cooed, using his other hand to rub up and down their captain's arm. Jim inhaled sharply with a startled wince.

"Bones?" he mumbled hoarsely, his free hand weakly rising to his face to push the cloth up from his eyes, glistening, bright blue irises peeking from underneath it. Once he saw the doctor and Spock, alarm overtook his expression and he tried to bolt up from the bed. Doctor McCoy caught him in the chest and pushed him back down against the pillows as Jim squeezed his eyes shut and compulsively swallowed several times.

"Easy there, Jim," the doctor soothed and reached for his tricorder from his portable medkit strapped to his belt. "How long ago was it that you started vomiting?"

"What time is it?" Jim asked instead of answering and glanced at Spock. "I'm supposed to be on the bridge, aren't I?"

"Don't worry about that right now," Doctor McCoy brushed off, running the tricorder from the captain's head down. "And it's zero eight forty-nine."

"Shit," Jim muttered, trying again to sit up. "I need to be on the bridge in ten."

"No, you don't. Mr. Spock, comm Uhura and tell her she’s got the conn for now. Jim's not leaving this bed today," Doctor McCoy said, staring the captain down. Jim glared at the doctor from under the cloth on his forehead, the effectiveness severely diminished from the pallor of his usually golden skin and the dark smudges under his eyes.

Spock moved to do as requested by the doctor just as McCoy said, "Now, when did you start vomiting?"

"Spock to Uhura," Spock said into his comm. When she answered, he quickly informed Lieutenant Uhura of the situation before she could ask while Jim tried to convince Doctor McCoy he was just suffering from a bad hangover.

“This isn’t a hangover, Jim. I don’t care what crazy liquor you decided to _inadvisably_ try last night. Now just answer the damn question!”

Spock pocketed his comm and turned back to the argument happening between the captain their CMO.

“A couple hours ago,” Jim finally told him with a huff. “God, why is it so hot in here?”

Doctor McCoy just raised an eyebrow at that and asked, "Any diarrhea?"

Jim pulled the cloth back over his eyes.

“Yeah. That came first,” the captain said quietly, seeming very uncomfortable with the situation. “I just thought it was all the fruit I ate last night reacting badly with my insides. There was a lot of it. The fruit. I thought I might have eaten something I was mildly allergic to without realizing and it hadn’t mixed well with the alcohol. So I took a quick sonic, changed, and went back to bed. Twenty minutes later, I woke up puking on myself and ran for the head.”

"Spock? Can you throw Jim's clothes into the laundry chute? Your Vulcan biology makes you immune to most Terran viruses, so you'll be fine to touch it," the doctor said and Spock hesitated only slightly before cautiously picking up the discarded garments on the floor (which included the captain’s uniform from yesterday) and taking them to the wall receptacle for clothing. The shirt smelled overpoweringly of human bile.

"Is that what the Captain has? A virus?" He questioned after coming back from cleaning his hands in the fresher.  Doctor McCoy was checking his tricorder readings again.

"Viral gastroenteritis-C," the doctor said, pulling a hypo from his portable medkit. "More commonly known as the stomach flu. It’s a particularly virulent virus that was created when a hardier mutation of the norovirus absorbed a weak strain of paneavirus during initial exploration before the Federation was formed. Before that, norovirus and rotavirus were almost completely eradicated due to childhood inoculation. There’s a vaccine for it but immunity only lasts five years without boosters, and even then some mutations on places like colonies, space stations, and deep space ships can still infect people who’ve never been exposed.

“Without decontamination procedures against it, it can live on a surface for two weeks. My guess is that we picked it up last week when we stopped at that last starbase for medical resupply.”

During his explanation, Doctor McCoy had gently pressed the prepared hypo into Jim’s neck. Jim, typically sensitive to hyposprays anyway, barely twitched.

“That was a slightly increased dose of acetaminophen for your fever and any aches you might have, but that's about all I can do. I don’t think you should take any nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories like this, what with your medical history. You're just gonna have to ride this out. I’m afraid you’re confined to quarters for the next three days.”

“Booones!” Jim whined and was ignored.

“Is that really all you can do, Doctor?” Spock inquired, wondering how - with modern medicine - something colloquially referred to as a ‘stomach bug’ couldn’t be treated better.

“Well, there _is_ a round of antivirals I could give him if he weren’t allergic to the preservatives in them. If it were something more serious, I’d find a way around it. But since these things usually clear up on their own with the only real risk being dehydration, I’m gonna let it go.”

With that, Doctor McCoy stood and put away his hypospray and tricorder.

“Jim, I’m gonna send a yeoman up with some acetaminophen tabs and I'mma program an electrolyte solution into your replicator. Make sure to drink a few ounces every hour. You’re also gonna wanna stick to blander foods. Stay away from sugars. Drink broth with butter in it, water, caffeine-free teas, and stick to crackers, pretzels, oatmeal, mashed potatoes, _a bit_ of fruit, and the like. Don’t push yourself. If you can only eat a few bites of something, don’t worry about it. I know you hate not clearing your plate but in this instance, you just won’t accomplish it.

“Meanwhile, I’m going to order a ship-wide decontamination process and suggest the crew increase hygienic practices until we can test for signs of the virus. Anyone displaying symptoms will have to be confined to quarters.”

"Will that truly be necessary, Doctor?" Spock asked, a little surprised at the measures the man was going to take.

"Excluding a few of the non-human species on this ship, _everyone_ is susceptible to this and because of its ability to live on surfaces for days, it can easily be transferred without an infected person realizing. Not to mention that symptoms can appear anywhere between one to three days after infection. It creates a cycle. So unless we want an entire ship of four-hundred-plus people puking everywhere for the next month it's entirely necessary. I’m serious about not leaving your quarters, Jim. Not even to go to the mess. Not until you’ve stopped puking, anyway.”

"That's not really— Bones! You're not gonna make me—"

"It is and I am," the doctor cut off. "Relax, Jimbo. We're en route to our next destination, and the course is plotted for the next week. I'm sure Uhura, Spock, Sulu, and Chekov can handle the Bridge for the next few days without you. _You_ just need to rest and relax. Let it work its way out of your system."

“I hate being sick, though,” Jim muttered sullenly and Doctor McCoy pat his knee.

“Just be glad I’m not putting you into quarantine in sickbay.”

“Surely it is not as bad as that, Doctor,” Spock said with a note of surprise.

“Not normally, but with Jim’s allergies and medical history, it could last longer than normal, hit him harder and lead to dehydration quicker, or leave him exposed to something else. This lockdown is for his protection as much as the crew’s.”

Jim blindly made a vague gesture of offense in the doctor’s direction.

Doctor McCoy turned to Spock then.

"As for you, Mr. Spock, you’ll be staying with him for the time being."

"What?" Jim protested loudly, shoving himself up onto one trembling arm. The cloth on his eyes fell to the bed. "I don't need someone babysitting me, Bones!"

"Jim, you're shaking, you're sweating, you haven't been able to drink a full eight ounces of water, you haven't gathered the necessary supplies to deal with this, and it's only going to get worse."

"Trust me, Bones," the captain pleaded. "I can take care of it. I’ll be fine on my own."

"My God, Jim! You can't even sit up without being exhausted! I wouldn't even trust you to shuffle the slight distance to the fresher. When was the last time you were sick like this?”

Jim glared at Doctor McCoy, his jaw tight and his vibrant blue eyes shinier than normal. After a moment, he flopped backward, supposedly conceding to the doctor’s point. McCoy turned to Spock after that.

“Any objections to getting him settled before heading to the bridge?” he asked Spock.

“Negative,” Spock said and Doctor McCoy nodded.

“Good. I’ll send a list of instructions to your padd. I’ll stop by the bridge to explain the situation a bit more before heading to medical. Jim, if you need anything just hail me. And I mean _anything_. Don’t want you dying because you fell and knocked yourself out trying to get to the toilet.”


	3. Nurse Spock, reporting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock makes a decision. Jim fights him on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to keep this story going with pretty steady pacing as far as updates are concerned, I'm making myself write more every time I edit and update the next part. This way, it'll actually get finished in a timely manner and all of you will get semi-regular updates! Go me! Setting realistic goals in 2017!
> 
> As usual, thank you for all of the kudos and comments! They are both a motivating form of inspiration and also a reminder not to lose track of time and forget to update. A real nice kick in the pants!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_~∞~_

Spock had set to work getting everything comfortable for Jim as soon as his padd whistled with the message from Doctor McCoy. And when the captain’s door beeped he admitted the yeoman beyond and let the young man place a blister pack of small white tabs on the tray he was readying to place next to Jim’s bed.

“Anything else, Commander?” he asked and Spock responded in the negative, dismissing the yeoman.

When he carried the tray back into Jim’s sleeping space, he found the captain’s startling blue gaze watching him from beneath the cloth on his head.

“You know you don’t actually have to stay, right?” Jim rasped quietly, eyes icy and shiny from his mild fever. There was something almost accusing in them as Spock carefully set the tray on Jim’s bedside table.

“Doctor McCoy made it clear that your illness weakens and that you should be properly ‘settled in’ for it before too long.”

“Bones is a mother-henning worrywart. He takes his job too seriously sometimes.”

“I would hope Doctor McCoy is serious about the parameters of his station aboard this ship simply by the virtue of the position.”

“ _Spock_ ,” Jim croaked, drawing out the vowel of his name in the way that Spock had come to mean Jim was exasperated in some way by him. “I’ll be _fine_. You should probably head up to the bridge, anyway. Not that I don’t think Uhura capable it’s just, well, she’s a little _too_ capable, if you know what I mean.”

“I do not, Jim.”

Jim huffed in amusement and closed his eyes. The longer they spent on the _Enterprise_ together, the easier it was becoming for Spock to read his captain’s moods from minimal verbal and bodily cues, but even with his mastery of advanced xenolinguistics and Federation Standard, Jim’s usage of Terran colloquialisms and implied meanings made communication confusing on occasion.

“I just meant that she’s smart and motivated and kind enough she could have captaincy in a heartbeat if she decided she had a taste for it. I’d be out of a job. It was a joke.”

“Ah,” Spock found himself vocalizing without intention. “If it was meant to be a joke, I do not understand the humor. Unless it was meant in the manner referred to as ‘self-depreciating,’ and even then, the humorous aspect comes from usage of truth and irony to be amusing. As there was neither in the statements directed at yourself, the joke ‘falls flat.’ Furthermore, I believe Nyota is perfectly content with her position as Chief Communications Officer. And any aspirations for the future exclude captaincy of any sort.”

“Lucky me,” Jim murmured and swallowed thickly, his face flushing in an emotional response that seemed to be caused by chastisement. He then glanced at the table and half rolled up onto his arm, letting the cloth on his head fall to the bed again. His trembling free hand reached for the cup of clear electrolyte solution and clasped it, damp fingers sliding over the plasticine surface. He lifted it four and a half centimeters off the tray before a small tremor traveled up his arm and he nearly dropped the solution.

Spock stepped up to catch it and, following an impulse he wasn’t even aware of having, he held the rim of the cup to Jim’s lips. Jim, after a hesitant look at Spock, took a small sip. He pulled a face and quickly swallowed. Something in Spock’s gut twisted and pulsed, a not entirely unpleasant feeling, though unnamed. It was not an unusual occurrence in his captain’s presence.

“It tastes stale, and metallic,” Jim remarked and tried to lean away.

“Please drink more, Jim. It is the solution Doctor McCoy programmed for you. You need to drink it. And I have brought you a small bowl of mashed bananas and whole grain oats from a list of foods recommended for you.”

“What’s in the other bowl?” Jim nodded toward the two bowls sitting together on the tray.

“Ice chips. Doctor McCoy’s message stated it would be easier than cups of water and would help with the fever.”

“God,” Jim sighed and fell back against his pillows. “Give me a bendy paper straw and it’s almost like I’m three again. Seriously, Spock, go to the bridge. Take over for Uhura. I’m fine. I’ll _continue_ to be fine.”

“Jim,” Spock protested, not yet sure what, why, or how he was protesting. But he had no real desire to leave Jim’s quarters at this time.

Jim picked up the cloth, a dark impression of damp left on the sheet below. He unfolded and flipped it, refolding it, following a method Spock was not quite sure of.

“I will head to the bridge once I am sure you are resting,” Spock said softly and Jim shot him a fond look, lips quirking in a charming smile.

“I’m still in bed, Spock. I think this counts.”

There was a small flutter in Spock’s side at the flirtatious, humored lilt to Jim’s voice. Spock’s chest tightened with worry.

“To clarify, Jim, I am expressing a desire to stay here with you until you have eaten. I will return to my duties once you have finished and laid back down to sleep.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Jim muttered, shifting and wiggling until he was sitting more fully upright. “Then I must insist you join me, Mr. Spock. Please, replicate yourself a dish and sit with me. I’ll even drink the medically-approved dirt water.”

Spock did as asked, bringing in the chair from in front of Jim’s desk. Their meal was pleasant, full of their usual conversations, though less boisterous and verbose than Spock was used to from Jim.

Of course, that was where the ease of their morning plans ended. Spock cleaned up but left the little leftover of Jim’s dish next to the bed upon his captain’s insistence. Jim believed he might wake up after Spock left and wish to finish it off. Jim was able to drink half of the electrolyte solution. Spock rewet the cloth Jim was keeping on his forehead with clean, cool water. Then, with Jim lying down once more, Spock moved to leave and found he could not.

He told himself he would just wait until Jim’s breaths steadied into the slow rhythm of sleep. But he was still standing at the edge of the partition, watching Jim sleep, a quarter of an hour later. Spock considered Jim’s bare torso and limbs, wondering if maybe the captain would be more comfortable with a light blanket covering him. Humans seemed to take much comfort from coverings when asleep.

It was at that juncture when things truly deviated from the projected course.

Spock had been about to pull the discarded blanket from the captain’s bed over Jim when suddenly the man had lurched up, half asleep and panicked. Jim practically threw himself over the side of the bed at the garbage receptacle, body heaving and vomit leaking from between clenched lips. There was a wild terror in his hazy blue eyes.

It required no thought for Spock to lunge forward and catch his captain around the chest, supporting the man as he heaved uncontrollably.

Jim was clearly still mostly asleep, unaware as he reacted to his body’s imperative to reject the little bit of gruel he had consumed. His dazed gaze was watery and even after his stomach had expunged its contents, Jim continued to gag and heave, breaths filling his lungs with gasps and leaving in shuddery sobs.

Jim’s whole body shook with the violence of his body’s rebellion. His hands clung to Spock’s arm across his chest.

And Spock realized he would never be able to concentrate on his shift with his captain suffering as such, and thus chose to stay and monitor him than fret from afar.


	4. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim feels miserable; he and Spock have an important conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how awesome it felt to share ideas and write and converse with people about all of these things! Here's another chapter guys! I'm feeling a little crappy so I hope that if you might be feeling the same, this update lifts your spirits a bit.
> 
> As always, Enjoy :)

_~∞~_

Jim was able to hazily recall an instance of vomiting, followed shortly by a dash into the head to experience what he could only describe as pissing from his asshole. _Thankfully_ , he had been alone for that, Spock remaining in Jim’s quarters to dispose of Jim’s vomit in the waste recycler, and Bones long gone to sickbay.

After that, he vaguely remembered nibbling on a few crackers and sipping broth before slipping off into blessed unconsciousness. He’s pretty sure he awoke a little while later to down about two ounces of electrolytes, but he couldn't’ be sure. His whole world felt like a dream, or more accurately, a repulsive, wobbly, spinning hallucination.

Then it was nothing but blissful, floating blackness.

He awoke in a surge upward, curling protectively around his stomach. A short, hopeful plea was sent into the uncaring void of his projected thoughts - a desire to not puke, not to have to experience the agony of clenching, twisting pain in his gut before it traveled up his back, rolling and tearing through his entire body, wringing his esophagus shut until he was choking.

Alas, his throat tightened, he coughed, and his fingers clenched painfully tight on his slightly bent knees before he felt the burn of stomach acid heaving its way upward against gravity. He choked and an arm reached from beside him, placing the short, round waste can in the vee of his legs right before he tasted bile.

A broad, warm hand rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades as he clutched at the bucket, riding out the expulsion of his stomach’s contents. It sprayed from his open mouth with rough, wet, gagging noises, the heaves of his gut so violent he could feel the vomit shooting out his nose as well. Uncontrollable tears streamed down his face. A soft, deep voice held him gently at the biceps and whispered indecipherable comfort into his ear.

James T. Kirk suddenly felt like he was a wobbly six-year-old again, relying on his older brother, Sam, to hold him through particularly horrifying illnesses and mental distress. He sobbed breathily when there was nothing left in his stomach and still his body spasmodically clenched. Mucus-y vomit dribbled from his nose, nauseating.

He _hated_ puking. It always left him feeling weak and guilty, gross inside and out. After his rough teenage years, he’d hoped to never do it again. And besides a few times between then and now where he gave himself alcohol poisoning, he hadn’t. Puking during _those_ times hadn't been _nearly_ as bad either, since his stomach contents were mostly liquid and once the alcohol was purged from his body, he quit. The haze of drunkenness had helped as well.

His body stopped dry heaving and he spit a snotty, rancid loogie into the sloshing yellow-orange mess in the bucket. A tissue was held to his nose and he lifted a shaky hand to take it. For the briefest moments, the hand didn’t move, but Jim nudged it away and it retreated. He carefully wiped under his nose and around his mouth before folding the tissue and blowing his nose. It was carelessly dropped into the bucket when he finished.

Then there was that hand again, holding out a bowl of melting ice chips. Jim reached for it, missed, and grabbed the wrist attached to the hand instead. His head felt so hot and he couldn’t stand the taste of his own mouth. He wanted that cool water so bad.

Thankfully, the lip of the bowl was brought close to his mouth and he was able to slurp some up, swishing with it and spitting into the bucket. His next mouthful was swallowed greedily, the cold water soaking into the roof of his mouth and cooling his head.

“Careful, Jim,” a familiar voice cautioned, drawing the bowl away. Jim tried to stop it, his weak hand ultimately sliding off the man’s wrist. “You will make yourself sick again.”

Jim finally glanced up at the face of the man attending to him. His face flushed hotter in embarrassment.

“Spock,” he croaked, as the Vulcan carefully lifted away the waste can.

“Jim.” Spock nodded once at him. “Please, lie back down. I will return momentarily.”

Then he turned and disappeared beyond the partition. Jim heard the bucket being emptied and cleaned, mortification creeping all over his skin. The door to the fresher opened with a soft hiss and Jim sighed, breathing easier. Spock should have returned to the bridge hours ago, probably. What was he doing still in Jim’s quarters?

His stomach gurgled angrily at him, upset about being empty. Jim reached for one of the crackers on his bedside table, noticing the refilled cup of electrolyte solution and a washcloth folded neatly on a small tray. It was black. The one he’d been using on his head was grey. He looked around for it and found it wasn’t anywhere. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without it, not when he was so hot. He wanted to go back to sleep. His eyes burned unpleasantly and he distracted himself by nibbling on his cracker. The fresher door hissed again just as he finished it and reached for the bowl of cold water.

Spock came around the partition with the clean bucket, wearing a fresh Starfleet undershirt, and holding a shallow dish with Jim’s grey washcloth in his other hand.

“Captain,” Spock reprimanded him, setting down the items in their proper places just as Jim crunched down on a chunk of ice. He slid the bowl from Jim’s grip and set it at the farthest corner of the table. “You must slow down. Trying to eat or drink too quickly after vomiting will only cause you to do so again, Jim.”

“Spock,” Jim complained. “I know. _Trust me._ I _know_ , okay. I only ate a cracker and sipped some water. This isn’t the first time I’ve been sick. I know how to take care of myself. Aren’t you supposed to be on the bridge?”

“I commed Doctor McCoy to inform him of the situation and volunteer to stay with you until the virus has run its course—”

“And of course Bones approved of someone babysitting me,” Jim interrupted sulkily, getting only a quirk in the corner of Spock’s lips to convey the Vulcan’s amusement. “Nobody dies from the stomach flu, Spock. Not even actual babies.”

“Jim, you are already not taking in enough liquids. If left alone, I am ninety-percent sure you would become dehydrated from a desire not to continue vomiting,” Spock said and carefully sat on the sliver of bed next to Jim’s hip, staring at the partition. “I already have permission to stay and care for you from Doctor McCoy. Nyota has agreed to be Acting Captain for our shift. Lieutenant Sulu will take over tomorrow if you are still not well. In an emergency, I will take the conn back. But, to speak clearly, I have no desire to leave you like this. Since the incident with Khan, I have...found myself struggling with witnessing you suffering. Even the knowledge that you might be, causes me...not an insignificant amount of distress.”

Jim clenched his hands in the sheet beneath him uncertain in the face of a rare display of emotional vulnerability from his Vulcan First Officer. He swallowed back his consolations and insistences to allow his friend this moment.

“I failed you that day, Jim. You are important to me… Very important. You died that day and there was nothing I could do. It was only pure luck that Doctor McCoy was able to synthesize a serum from Khan’s blood in time to bring you back. Luck is unquantifiable and unreliable. You would have stayed dead had circumstances been even slightly different.”

“Spock,” Jim whispered, voice cracking the tiniest bit and Spock shook his head, gaze finally meeting Jim’s, only for a second.

“Jim, you are my friend - my closest friend. I had not realized it in time then and you were gone. Please, let me care for you today… To make amends for my failings before.”

Jim wasn’t sure what to say to that. Any denials of blame or offered platitudes wouldn’t work on Spock, wouldn’t help. He wasn’t sure how to address this almost sacred moment of emotional honesty. Jim knew that Spock still struggled with balancing his Vulcan heritage and human proclivity toward emotional expression. Deep down, Spock carried a lot of guilt.

Jim knew something about that.

Knew something about trying to fix the past by desperately clinging to keeping the future unbroken, too.

“Alright, Spock,” Jim whispered, tentative and hoarse. “I’ll stop. I’ll let you play nurse for the day without badgering. Okay?”

Spock turned and looked at him, something too-open-too-gentle in his soft, chocolate gaze.

“That is acceptable, Jim,” Spock stated quietly, cadence stiffer than usual, more robotic— like when Jim first met him.

So Jim didn’t protest when Spock made him eat a chicken broth and vegetable soup, he didn’t protest when Spock insisted he continue sipping the electrolyte solution until all eight ounces were gone, he didn’t protest when Spock pressured him to change his underwear and put on a pair of soft lounge pants and a clean tee. By the time Spock was settling him down again after a trip to the bathroom, Jim wasn’t even near protesting. At that point, he felt exhausted and full, achy and too hot. He just wanted to sleep. So he let Spock lay him back against his piled pillows, dozed as Spock carefully slipped a small tablet past his lips, swallowed obediently at the tiny bit of water provided. And he turned his face into the soothing, damp, strokes of a cloth over his lips, across his brow, and down his neck.

By the time a much colder washcloth was being draped over his forehead and eyes, Jim was hovering on the edge of true sleep. He shivered happily at the immediate alleviation of the burning in his eyes and throbbing at his temples.

Jim fell asleep to the phantom touch of something cool brushing over his lips.


	5. A Turn for the Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick summary of Jim's illness so far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Been super busy these last couple days so this chapter is a shorter one (didn't have a lot of time to do any editing). It's not much but the transition is a little necessary for the next part. I'll try to have the next chapter up tomorrow night.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support as I do this!
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

Jim fell into a routine for the next seven hours. Spock had observed that there was just a little over two hours (approximately 2.13) between Jim’s vomiting spells. He spent the time in between, as Jim rested, sliding ice chips over his captain’s lips and wiping cool cloths over the exposed skin of Jim’s neck, face, and arms. He rinsed the cloth on Jim’s forehead in icy water every twenty minutes to help keep the man’s mild fever down. The small tablet of acetaminophen he had given Jim helped in that regard.

Then when Jim inevitably awoke to vomit, he would help clean Jim up and escort him to the fresher as Jim’s legs had more trouble supporting him each time. After, he would feed Jim something small and bland, sometimes fatty or salty as a few of Doctor McCoy’s suggestions were. Then there would be another intake of liquids before Jim was exhaustedly falling asleep.

When he found himself with nothing to do, after all of Jim’s needs were seen to, Spock would read over the reports coming in that day from the science departments. A few times he typed up messages and sent them to certain individuals who needed to amend their experiments or whose reports left him with questions. He may not be able to be Acting Captain from Jim’s quarters but he could still keep up with the datawork demands of being Chief Science Officer.

Jim seemed to be doing better. He was terribly exhausted whenever awake but he slept peacefully. The rest seemed to be doing a lot of good as his fever began to drop slowly and he vomited smaller amounts, which meant what he consumed was actually moving through his body instead of sitting in his stomach uselessly.

Then it all turned. Coming up on 1700 hours, Jim’s next bout of vomiting was violent and painful. Agonized distress radiated from the man as his body heaved and clenched so tightly he shook uncontrollably. There was all manner of horrible gagging and choking noises, followed by coughing sobs. Spock settled in behind Jim and held him, trying to offer comfort and support through the whole ordeal. His fever spiked at the same time and worried Spock.

Once Jim’s stomach was empty and the dry heaves ceased, Spock had trouble convincing the man to eat - even just a little - before falling back asleep. Jim was so tired he ended up falling backward against Spock’s chest, unconscious, as soon as he finished consuming two crackers with a swallow of electrolyte solution. Spock, on his part, just rearranged Jim against his chest so he could easily reach everything and remained cradling his sickly captain close.


	6. FML

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has some trouble and sometimes he hates his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I tag for embarrassment? I feel like I should do that because of this chapter. There's probably going to be some second-hand embarrassment here. But hey! It's a longer chapter! And it's kind of sweet? In a way?
> 
> Anyway, I hope that despite all of that (or maybe because of all that) you enjoy nonetheless.

_~∞~_

Jim came into consciousness blearily and slow. His first thought was that he was uncomfortably hot and that his tongue felt wooly and dry, papery. Something cold and slippery was pressed against his lips and he accepted it into his mouth.

Ice.

His next thought was that his stomach hurt. All of it. Low in his abdomen there was a twisting, clenching ache that could only mean one thing, and higher up under his ribs there was an annoying burning sensation.

Against his will, he was levered up into a slouched sitting position while leaning on the currently moving mass he’d been using as a pillow. He was so tired. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to walk to the fresher. He was sick of being sick. How  _long_ had he _been_ like this? It was _too_ long.

Everything…

...hurt…

He didn’t want to move _at all_.

There was some jostling and tugging on his body and Jim whined in protest. Then, he was weightless. Or he would be, except he felt like his entire mass had concentrated and was pushing against the bars under his shoulders and knees.

Had the gravity of the ship been increased? Why did he feel so _heavy_ only? there?

Something hissed artificially and Jim tried to open his eyes only to see nothing but black and blurs of hazy other colors in the peripherals of one eye. The bar under his shoulders turned into a vice squeezing his ribs and the one under his knees disappeared. He moaned, panicking for just an instant as he thought he would fall, slip-slide out of the vice, tumble away into nothingness.

Then his feet touched the cool - wonderfully, blessedly cool - floor. The vice around his ribs loosened and his legs trembled under his sudden weight on them. His hands fumbled for something to hold onto. They curled into fabric. Itchy, uncomfortable fabric.

Jim struggled, blinked his eyes open. The blurs were fading and becoming hazy outlines.

He leaned forward into the sturdy, black pillar wearing something with the Starfleet insignia. Where was he? Still on his ship, he presumed. But there was only one place that had pillars of any sort on the _Enterprise_ and Jim hoped he wasn’t _there_ like _this_. That was dangerous. Bones hated when he was dangerous.

Warm - too warm, so soft, gentle, comfort - fingers (??) curled around the back of his neck. He leaned back, arms shaking as he forced his hands to clench harder at the fabric held tightly within his white-knuckled fists. (¿Why? did his _muscles?_ feel numb?) The arm (it was an arm, right?) around his back cradled him close. Jim wasn’t going to fall.

His intestines gurgled and twisted painfully. Jim squeezed his eyes tightly shut before blinking the room into focus, knowing he needed to get to a toilet. Quickly, as his intestines gurgled again.

…

Huh.

He was already in the fresher,,,

And…

Look at that.

So was Spock.

It was _his_ shirt in Jim’s fists and Jim’s heart skipped-pit-pat-stuttered over a quicker beat as Jim gazed at his First Officer’s face in mortification. His face became boiling hot.

Kill him now.

Spock’s hands were on his hips and Jim was awake enough to stand on his own feet (with help) but apparently he wasn’t coherent enough to realize Spock was hooking his thumbs in the waistbands of his pants and carefully shoving them down his thighs until his they were closer to his knees than his hips. This **_wasn’t_ ** _happening_.

Kill him now with a _photon torpedo_.

There was no fucking way Jim had to take a massive diarrhea shit and his Vulcan best-friend-number-two-though-possibly-Jim-might-be-maybe-attracted-to-him First Officer was there pulling down his sweats and helping him sit on the shitter. The guy had already seen him puking his guts up **_every_** _where_. It had come _out his nose_. And he _knew_ Spock could smell just how terrible it was. (Jim certainly was. Every. Time.) And now here Spock was, cradling Jim under the arms and pushing him back to sit on the toilet so he could vacate his volatile digestive tract from _the other end_.

Just.

Seriously.

Kill him now.

With that photon torpedo.

To the face.

Into a black hole.

…

And the worst part was…

Okay, there were  _two_ equally terrible parts to this.

Jim had hoped that if his pants came off in the hands of his Super Attractive Vulcan First Officer and Friend, it would involve sexy times, wish fulfillment, and equal nakedness. _This?!¿?_ Yeah, it had just _killed_ that dream. With a photon torpedo. To the balls.

The second terrible thing was that, yeah, Jim could acknowledge that he was at this point. If he’d been alone, it would have taken him longer to get to the fresher, and by then he’d need a shower and new clothes. But dammit, he would still have his sad dignity. No one would have _ever_ had to know. **_Ever..._ **

Spock placed a hand on the top of Jim’s head and let go of him.

“I will wait outside the door,” he said quietly and left the fresher before Jim’s brain could catch up with the words. His whole head was on fire, and not just from the fever.

He thanked everything he could - God, gods, the stars, ancient deities, Spock’s intuition (did Vulcan’s have that?) - that Spock had left when he did because the muscles that kept him from shitting himself decided they were over it all at once.

When he was done, he was able to clean himself up (and clean up after himself) _by_ himself, diligently washing and wiping and rinsing and washing both his ass and his hands until he felt clean again. And as he stepped out of the fresher to see Spock waiting, his legs chose that moment to quit working. He collapsed into Spock’s waiting arms, still hating his treacherous body for...everything. He was just lucky his mind seemed too exhausted to start up with memories and flashbacks. Because that would just be the piss-icing on his shit-cake that was this whole situation. That would be like kicking a man when he was down, or better yet, beating the dead horse that his life had suddenly become.

“Do not fret, Jim,” Spock stated almost softly but breaking Jim’s spiraling thoughts. Spock easily lifted him up into a bridal carry and took him to his bed where he was only slightly shocked to see refilled bowls and cups. It _was_ Spock nursing him back to health. The man’s middle name was ‘diligent.’ Or well, it was… Jim didn’t actually know.

That seemed like something he should know, though. Spock knew his. Or he thought Spock did. Did Spock even know what Jim’s real name was? Did he think it was ‘Jim?’ James said his own name enough like that when formally introducing himself to unknowns. Spock, by all means, should know. What if he thought it was like ‘Tim?’ Jimothy! Wait! What was the ratio of ‘James T’s to ‘James Tiberius’s? Because what if Spock though his middle name was T? (Tee? Tea?) Or worse, Timothy? Jimothy Timothy? Jimothy T’Kirk? ( _“The name’s Jim T’Kirk, M’lady.”_ Oh, god! The horror!)

“It is nothing you can control.”

Jim started, startled, and it took him a full heartbeat to remember what Spock had to be talking about. Oh god, yeah, _that._ Being _unable to take a shit **by himself**. _

Jim sighed, resigned. (Slightly depressed, but he tried not to linger on that.) Once again, his life was out of his control.

Spock laid him down on his bed, fresh sheets on it and when? the fuck? had that happened... He carefully arranged Jim against the pillows so he was mostly lying down, lifting Jim’s weak body like it was nothing. (... _really…?_ )

By then, Jim was mostly asleep again, entirely unable to keep his eyes open. So he wasn’t protesting too much.

Spock was able to get him to sip at some of the electrolyte solution before he was well and truly gone.

Jim was grateful for the escape of unconsciousness.

 


	7. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's delirious. It's downhill from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all really enjoy this chapter. I'm sorry for taking a few more days than usual to update. I think. I've lost track? It's still January. That's all I know. For this chapter, consult the tags above because this is when they really start coming into play.
> 
> Thank you for all of your comments last chapter! I really do appreciate each and every one and I try to respond to all of them.

_~∞~_

Jim woke slowly.

Shivering.

His stomach _was on fire,_ all the way up his esophagus into the back of his throat. It was acid on his tongue.

And he was so, so cold.

But there was _warmth_. Behind him, pressed against his back. It was so hot against his bare skin. Even though it was scratching uncomfortably at his skin - prickly, painful, itchy - he still wanted to just roll over and bury himself in _that_ warmth. He would tuck his arms - he hated it, how shaky and sickeningly weak his arms were - between his chest and the warmth.

He didn’t want to be cold and weak again.

With a smacking of his lips, he disturbed his tongue, glued to the roof of his mouth with dried saliva. His whole mouth felt like...not sandpaper, but similar. Like he’d eaten sand and it had taken all the moisture with it. His tongue was parched leather and his throat was the desert.

Some cool liquid trickled over his lips, leaking past them to his desperate tongue and dribbling down his chin. He shuddered when t splashed onto his chest - shock of cold against too-warm skin. But that didn’t matter as he tried to gulp down as much of the water as he could. It hurt, the chill twisting his stomach, but it was so, so very good. His tongue felt like a tongue again. A bit too sticky-slick, though.

And then it was gone. Something damp and cool was wiped over his chest. He shuddered again.

What the fuck was going on? Where was his blanket? If he could just get his blanket he would be warmer. He wanted to curl up under his blanket. His toes were cold. He hated when his toes were cold. They were always cold there, and since then, he hated when they never felt warm.

Jim tried to open his eyes and found no matter how hard he struggled, how he tried to prize them up or squint them open, he couldn’t even get the lids to raise a millimeter.

He was trapped.

Like this!? What if he would never wake up? Could never wake up? Was he stuck unconscious? Drugged? Could he move?

Oh god! He was going to die like this, wasn’t he?!

His breathing sped up, he was panting and he was very aware of how it began to dry out his mouth. No, no, nononono. Adrenaline was making his heart beat faster now. He was going to slowly die too-hot and too-cold and without water. Precious, delicious, clean water. Where was the water? The snow would be.... _should_...be...enough…….

Where was he again? He _needed_ to _know_. There were… People… Who relied on him. And he couldn’t let them down. He had to be strong. He had to save them. They were his family. His _only family_ left. Most of them were just kids! Too young! Too small! Too thin! They needed him.

He couldn’t die! Not like this! Not when they weren’t safe! They needed him!

_He had to wake up!!_

“Calm, Jim,” a deep voice whispered near his ear and something cold - tooICEcold - touched his forehead. His whole body shivered tightly.

He tried to knock away the cold thing. His hand spasmed and twitched slightly upward before flopping to the side. Already, he was exhausted.

But he needed to get the cold thing away.

He wanted warm. He was _always cold_. Nobody was ever warm. He wanted to just be warm. He was _so_ thirsty and _so_ cold and _so **hungry**_.

He whimpered, terrified that he had no control over his own body. How was he supposed to fight? Protect? Eat? Survive? He was helpless. He was never going to be helpless. He was a fighter! He wouldn’t let anyone ever make him helpless. He vowed it. To himself. Everything was his decision. He was nobody’s victim.

But he couldn’t fucking move!

And he hadn’t decided _this!_

“Hush, Jim, hush. Everything is fine. I will not let any harm come to you and no one is in danger. You are safe.”

There was that voice again, and though it was soft against his ear, it seemed to echo and reverberate within him. Truth rang pure in it, in his core self. A loosening in his chest told him he could trust the voice. If this voice said they were safe, then they were. It couldn’t lie. Wouldn’t lie.

Not to him. They were special when together.

The cold-wet was removed from his forehead and he felt a hard edge pressed against his bottom lip, then the touch of soothing, cool liquid. It tasted weird. It wasn’t water? It was water? It didn’t taste like anything, and it didn’t taste like water. Was it poisoned? Oh god, what if it was contaminated!? He tried to turn away from it and spit.

“Hush, Jim. It is not poisoned. Neither is it contaminated,” the voice shushed him. The cup followed him. Should he drink it? He was still so thirsty… But what if… He had learned his lesson. Twice over. It was one he needed no more practical experience with.

“It will not harm you, ashayam,” the voice whispered soothingly and he believed it. He eagerly swallowed the liquid instead as it was poured over his hot tongue.

It, too, was pulled away before he was done with it. Again. He whined and tried to chase after it. It was a struggle to lift his head and when he couldn’t, he unhappily let it loll to the side.

His brow pressed into something warm and smelling of spices — burning spices and strong tea. Incense-y. Thick. Like burning wood. He nuzzled closer into that familiar scent and the heat it provided. His nose mashed into it and his lips brushed over smooth-soft-skin (?) as he found a hollow where he could breathe deeply.

It was comfort. It was familiar— new.

Fingers so hot they felt like brands around his wrists lifted his arms and crossed them over his bare chest, holding them there, holding them tight. And he felt safe. Uncomfortable, with his stomach still burning and the rest of him still-too-cold and the itchy and the ache of hunger, but safe. And the others were safe. They were saved… right? No more hunger, no more cold, no more damp, no more hiding, no more… He shuddered deeply and let the thought die.

The voice said he wouldn’t be hurt anymore. And the arms around him felt so sure.

But he did hurt still. His whole body ached, the uncontrollable shivering emphasizing every creak of every joint and the lethargy of his muscles. His gut twisted painfully.

He shot up, adrenaline hitting his system like a spike of ice.

He fought against the hot hands groping at him, pulling at him, trying to restrain him. Until he realized they weren’t. They were cradling him steady as he bent almost in half over the bucket he suddenly found between his legs, his shaky hands gripping the sides. He forced his eyes to open just barely enough to see that the top of the bucket was under his face. There was an extra pair of legs in black pants outside his, and he didn’t recognize his blurry surroundings.

( _Where was he? Nothing was familiar._ Except that voice, the way it smelled…)

His mouth flooded with thick saliva seconds before he felt his abdomen clench painfully. He fought it off with a sob. He didn’t want to puke. He couldn’t. Wasn’t allowed to. There wasn’t enough food for that. Or, wait… They had food now, didn’t they? This was something else? A doctor had said this would happen. Because they weren’t there anymore.

But it felt like he’d been puking forever. He wanted to be able to finally eat and keep it down. He just wanted to not be hungry anymore. It was so _unfair_. He’d survived this long. He deserved food. He deserved to eat. He didn’t want to go back to that. This.

He cried, hot tears on his cheeks as his whole middle seized, rolling up from hips to ribs like a squeezed tube, and liquid gushed from his mouth. He was all-too-aware of the hot hands on his back and ribs, holding him steady against the rebellion of his own body. More burning liquid spilled from his mouth with a splutter, excess pouring down his chin into the bucket. He gagged on the emptiness of his stomach four times, his own throat choking him as he sobbed and retched. He was spitting excessive saliva and mucus each time he coughed into the bucket. His mouth tasted acidic and metallic.

A scratchy tissue was dragged over his chin and lips to mop up the mess there, and the bucket was taken from him, those scalding hands back on his torso (waist, shoulder, chest) to drag him back into the warmth behind him. His mouth was gently wiped down again with a wet cloth - dabbed at with a sort of care he wasn’t used to. He was urged to drink more water (thank god, it washed out some of the taste of acid and bile in his mouth), and with a bit of jostling, he was turned onto his side to recline that way into the body behind him.

There was a methodic fumble and that deep, familiar voice said, “Spock to Doctor McCoy.”

“ ‘pock,” Jim mumbled into the steady shoulder beneath his cheek. That’s what that smell was. He nuzzled around until he could press his face into that warm, spiced place again. Spock. Relief.

“McCoy here, what do you need Spock?”

McCoy. Bones. Sweet, Southern Bones. Jim was safe. Bones _always_ saved him. Bones _brought him back from being **dead**_. Bones wouldn’t hurt him. Ever.  Bones would never let Jim suffer. Not like that. Not like then. Bones was his brother. Bones would let him eat. Always.

“You are needed in the Captain’s quarters,” Spock said. He had such a nice voice. But right then it wasn’t so calm but instead so tense. Jim thought it sounded scared. Scared of what? They were safe now.

“I believe the Captain has just vomited up blood.” His deep voice rumbled underneath Jim's shoulder, against his face, and Jim sighed. That could be bad for the captain. Jim was puking blood once. It was crap. It hurt a lot. And he was stuck in the hospital.

He sighed heavily and pressed further into the warm body, so too-warm. Perfect. His hand fisted itchy fabric and he again wished for his soft blanket before drifting off.

“ ‘pock...”


	8. Honesty With Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock begins to really understand some truths about himself. McCoy checks Jim out, and they both hope he gets better soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gods, my dudeguypals! This chapter is kinda long. But seeing as this thing has gotten out of hand and I'll be posting more, I'm sure none of you mind in the least. (It was only supposed to be max 10k. It's double that!!! T_T) (It's seriously like 33 pages in google docs, with 11pt font.) (I'm not done. How?) (How did it happen like this? It was only a fic!) (Don't worry though, because I have an ending I'm working towards! There's a goal!)
> 
> Once again, Thank You All for your continued comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Sometimes it's the only thing that makes my day better. (Super stressed lately.) Anyway, continue your enjoyment!

_~∞~_

“I’ll be right there. McCoy out,” Doctor McCoy said briskly and Spock set his communicator on the bedside table, near the edge for easy reach. He gathered up Jim’s blanket, an excessively soft microfiber monstrosity that was too thick to keep Jim’s body at an ideal temperature. But Jim wanted it and after more than twelve hours of suffering through this illness only to now be vomiting blood, Spock thought he deserved the comfort of it.

He carefully draped the tartan patterned material over Jim’s shoulders and tucked it in close. Spock let one arm wrap around Jim’s limp shoulders, his free hand carding through Jim’s sweaty locks of golden hair, carefully shielding.

Even having trained his mind away from fanciful thoughts at a young age, Spock still found himself wishing he could take away this pain, this sickness, from Jim. If he had only spoken to Jim earlier, before all of this had happened, about the things he was feeling around his captain, maybe they would have been able to cultivate a more intimate relationship, and Spock could have at least soothed the whirl of panic, anxiety, confusion, and self-loathing he felt though Jim’s skin.

Vulcans do not lie. Sometimes they embrace technicality, but they do not lie.

But Spock had been lying to himself. This revelation had brought with it a not insignificant amount of shame.

The truth was, after the incident with Khan and Jim’s subsequent death and revival, his relationship with Nyota had been unstable. Nyota had finally brought up the subject and forced him to consider a difficult reality, one where Jim had not been revived. He was forced to admit that Jim meant a lot more to him than he had first understood while the captain had been dying. Even with this revelation, Spock had not desired Nyota’s absence in his life, and they had tentatively continued their relationship.

_“On a trial basis,” Nyota had said._

She had meant that she was willing to put in the work to get them back to being what they were - and more - if only Spock left Jim Kirk firmly in a place of friendship.

It had been going well. Spock and Nyota had even begun engaging in coitus again at the start of their deep space mission. Despite their progress, it had quickly become obvious they would not work long term anymore— not in any romantic capacity.

It had been a diplomatic mission, the first of several that had taken an odd turn with Jim at the center of it all. Their team had been trying to help two disagreeing tribes on a planet that was a fairly recent addition to the Federation. Negotiations were going nowhere, the tribes were at a stalemate and dialogue was swiftly devolving into violence. Jim had requested a private audience with the two leaders and the three had disappeared into a separate chamber off from the large conference room. The remaining advisors plus Jim’s posse of security and officers from the _Enterprise_ were left waiting.

Half of a standard hour went by before the tribe leader that had been the most obstinate came out looking calm and satisfied. He gathered his people and retreated to a corner of the room. Then, 21.4 minutes after that, Jim and the other leader emerged with an agreement drawn up in its roughest form. Jim’s hair was tousled as though fingers had been repeatedly combed through it, a soft flush clung to his skin, and his lips were swollen.

It had been immediately obvious what had happened even though Jim never faltered as their captain— speaking and carrying himself with all the dignity and respect his position deserved, demanded.

Once they were back on the ship, Spock had been spending time with Nyota as he usually did, engaged in a mind meld with her when, unbidden, his thoughts had turned toward Jim— the encounter on the planet. With undercurrents of possessiveness and fury, desire and need, it had become clear, then, just what the bond between him and their captain was. It had shocked Nyota to her core and devastated Spock.

It was impossible, and yet, there it was.

Spock could not - would never be able to - keep his mind, and therefore his katra, away from Jim Kirk like Nyota needed. It would be unfair to both of them to try.

They ended their relationship.

Spock had once again found himself uncertain about his place in the universe, on a level he had not felt since he was a child, ostracized because of one-half of his parentage. Thankfully, Nyota had remained amicable and kind, her more comprehensive understanding and knowledge of Vulcan culture dissolving any betrayal she may have felt. This was something neither of them had accounted for, could have accounted for. What was left was just disappointment and loss for what they could have had.

It had taken time but they were already becoming closer in their relationship as friends. They met frequently to engage in small talk, to help keep their distance and create a new normal function between them. Nyota’s attentions and interests had been placed on other things and Spock had changed nothing about his carefully cultivated friendship with Jim.

Until this day, that was the case.

His katra had responded in a deeply disconcerting and volatile manner to Jim’s illness. He had thought he could have seen Jim through it as a friend, supportive but distant. Now that he had touched Jim’s skin, felt Jim’s unguarded self brushing against his, he could never be satisfied with going back to their friendship before.

It was as though a deep well of yearning had been cracked viciously open within him and spilled through with all the pressure of a geyser bubbling and hissing, spitting skywards before settling into a steady, steaming babble.

The door beeped and Spock called for the computer to allow McCoy entry. The doctor wasted no time in coming around the partition to attend to their captain.

“My god, man, when I cleared you to play nurse for Jim, this wasn’t what I had in mind. I had hoped for better from you,” McCoy said as soon as he saw Spock and the captain lounged against the pillows on the bed. “But I’m sure Jim can seem _very_ charming, even violently ill.”

“I am not sure I understand your meaning, Doctor,” Spock said, knowing that his position with Jim on the captain’s bed could be seen as scandalously intimate, were it not for Jim’s delirium and weakened state.

The doctor just raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he motioned to the two of them with his hand not occupied with his portable medkit.

“Sure,” McCoy said, setting the kit on the bed near their feet. “There’s nothing to misunderstand here.”

“I was only attempting to provide the Captain with support and comfort through contact as his illness weakened him.”

In truth, after carrying Jim to the fresher, Spock could not draw himself away. He had tried to maintain the distance he had kept before and found a primal fraction of himself raging against it until he finally moved to curl protectively around Jim.

“That’s all it is, is it?” McCoy muttered, drawing the blanket from Jim’s shoulders and feeling his temperature through skin contact. “Which is why, even though it appears he’s changed clothes since this morning, he’s still shirtless.”

“I could not convince the Captain to remain wearing one. He claimed it was irritating his skin.”

“Right,” McCoy said, drawing the word out with his accent. “Well, I’m not here to judge your creepering, repressed Vulcan nature. Just tell me about this possibility of puking blood.”

Spock ignored the slight toward his heritage and focused on the relevant subject.

“Jim appeared to be improving until approximately four and a half hours ago. He experienced increasingly violent body convulsions as he vomited, proceeding to choke when nothing continued to be expelled. Then, when he next awoke - approximately two hours after - he needed to use the toilet quite desperately. He was unable to walk there as he had previously been doing and I was required to carry him. His temperature also felt elevated, though without any equipment available I was unable to be sure. Before this incident, he was vomiting less, even as he continued to do so at regular intervals.

“Then, shortly after returning from the fresher, he fell asleep only to awake less than an hour later. He was delirious upon waking and was unable to recognize his surroundings. He could barely move and seemed to be experiencing increased levels of dehydration. At one point, he began slipping into a heightened state of panic that I was able to pull him from, even as he failed to recognize me. His thoughts have been particularly confused and alternately terrified and exhausted.”

“Been having a little peek into his mind there, Spock,” McCoy muttered disapprovingly as he took readings from Jim’s body with his tricorder’s handheld sensor. “Isn’t that against your little hobgoblin code of conduct?”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with McCoy’s defensiveness on Jim’s account.

“He has been projecting quite loudly in his distress and I find that I am… emotionally compromised by his state,” Spock admitted.

McCoy paused his actions and looked Spock in the eye.

“And what does Uhura think about all this? Because I remember her distinct lack of approval last time Jim was recovering from something and you opted to spend all of your time hovering over him.”

Spock took only a moment to deliberate on informing the doctor of the situation.

“Nyota and I terminated our relationship shortly after our mission began. It was seen as beneficial for both of us and we remain friends,” Spock revealed.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?” McCoy asked as he offhandedly motioned toward Jim sleeping against Spock’s shoulder.

“I believe that is a personal inquiry into my life and as you are neither saving it nor treating me, I would prefer if you kept any similar questions to yourself and focused on treating the Captain,” Spock said tightly.

“Yeah, yeah, avoiding the topic as usual,” McCoy muttered, opening up his medkit fully. There were at least twenty separate hyposprays in it, in addition to its required contents. “Tell me more about this blood.”

“Well, it is in that bucket over there if you would like to see for yourself,” Spock told the doctor with a short motion in the direction of the waste receptacle. “Part of it appeared to be clotted. Some of it was fresh from whatever internal bleeding Jim is suffering from.”

McCoy drew the waste receptacle closer and peered in, tilting it to examine it better in the low light.

“That’s definitely blood,” he said quietly and consulted his tricorder’s readings.

“You do not seem all that concerned, seeing as the Captain is your closest friend,” Spock said, feeling the markers of anger at the doctor’s casual attitude. Jim was sick and wounded, _bleeding_.

“Calm that ugly green rage you’re feeling,” McCoy said as he sifted through the hyposprays at his disposal. “I expected this would happen. You see, Jim was exposed to some less-than-ideal living conditions when he was a kid and picked up some of the viruses that cause ulcers. They were pretty severe, but thanks to modern medicine he was healed up nice and neat. The only downside…”

McCoy trailed off as he picked up the first of nine hyposprays he had laid out. He carefully leaned over Spock to administer it to Jim’s neck.

“Was that the inner lining of his upper gastrointestinal tract was weakened. The ulcers were extensive enough to leave behind scar tissue after they healed. And although he hasn’t had a problem with it yet, I figured if anything would test how well they had healed it would be severe vomiting. The scans indicate that there are some minor tears in his lower esophagus and—”

“Why wasn’t I informed of the Captain’s condition, if this was a possibility? I have read his medical file. There was no record of this within it,” Spock interrupted, feeling rage flicker deep in his gut and side at being denied this information. It was the same rage he had felt anytime his mother had been insulted.

“Sorry to say this, Spock, but you don’t have access to his full file. As Jim’s primary physician and the CMO of this ship, I was given full disclosure. There’s a whole book of information you’re not privy to.”

Spock was not sure, but he thought he could read a hint of smugness in the doctor’s expression, hear it just slightly in his tone, as the man continued to administer hyposprays in an order only he was privy to understanding.

“And before you demand to know what it is, I’ll remind you that it’s private for a reason and it’s not my place to tell you about every wretched detail of his life. You want to know, you ask Jim. Besides, my override codes and Jim’s are the only ones that can unlock the full file. You'll have to apply to the admiralty as per the protocols for handling classified and sensitive information to be given access.”

“I was unaware so much of Jim’s file had been redacted.” Spock mourned the fact that something so terrible to be given the highest tier of top-secret classification had happened to Jim. And it had to be such an event. Starfleet would have no reason to hide excellence.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about him,” McCoy said gently, and it was not gruff or admonishing. Instead, he seemed to be giving Jim a pitying look.

Spock contemplated this while Doctor McCoy finished with the hypos and tossed the empty cartridges back into his medkit.

“Alright, so, I’ve just given him a steroid for inflammation, a couple general antibiotics to help with whatever infections might be setting in, and something for pain and to bring his fever down, but since he’s mildly allergic to some of the antibiotics, I’ve had to supplement with other hypos to keep him from going into anaphylactic shock. Which, unfortunately, can severely diminish their usefulness.” McCoy held up an unused hypospray with a cartridge loaded. “I’m leaving this here. If he starts having trouble breathing and begins coughing, if he goes into convulsions, if anything starts to swell and become excessively red, if he suddenly becomes pale and his heart rate drops, or any combination of these, I want you to give him this immediately. Then call me.”

“You worry that he will have anaphylaxis?” Spock allowed a small frown to convey his confusion. McCoy had just explained that he had taken measures to prevent this.

“This is just backup,” Doctor McCoy said gruffly and set the hypospray on the table. “There’s always the possibility, even though I’ve done what I can to prevent it. He’s gonna need another round of everything in the morning and a more thorough check up. So, I’m gonna head back to my quarters for a bit of rest. And I’m putting calls from you as priority, but on the off chance that I don’t respond, I want you to alert sickbay before hailing me again. I’m also going to update the food list and leave these bismuth dissolves here. Next time he’s conscious, have him drink a full eight ounces of electrolyte solution with one of them.”

“Affirmative.”

McCoy then left a small tube of pink discs next to the hypospray. He stood up and reached for Jim’s face, brushing sweat-damp locks of hair from his forehead with one large hand. Spock stiffened slightly, unsure how to take the gesture. That buried and vicious fraction of himself demanded he break the doctor’s fingers for presuming to touch Jim in such a way.

“I think I liked his hair in the fade more. Longer like this, it makes him seem too haggard,” McCoy murmured. “Too world-weary. He seemed more boyish and excited with it shorter.”

“I believe his intention is to appear more dignified and mature,” Spock offered and McCoy scoffed.

“He’s too young to worry about that.”

“He is the Captain of Starfleet’s flagship. To discredit the importance of presentation and appearance is to discard the value of his position.”

“I’m just saying that I wish… He’s becoming too caught-up in his own head and how others view him. Combine that with his inability to leave well-enough alone so he’s always taking on too much… He’s fading. Something’s changed and I’m not sure what it is. But there’s definitely something pullin’ him down. His immune system’s never been the best, but with whatever’s stressin’ him out, I’m not surprised it’s come to this. I’m going to tentatively take him off the duty roster for the next week. Think you could help me keep him resting and away from the bridge until then?”

“Yes. I will do what needs to be done to keep him in peak condition. As First Officer, it is my duty to take the Captain’s health into account and work to keep him in optimal condition. The ship needs a captain.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. And as I understand it, you’ve spoken with Sulu about taking over tomorrow?”

“Affirmative.”

“Well, I can sign off on medical leave for you for the next week too, Spock. If you’d prefer.”

“I doubt the Captain would be amenable to that.”

“Aah, you’re right. Once he’s coherent, he’ll likely have a conniption when he realizes what I’ve done. Feel free to comm me when that happens. I’m used to it; I can deal with it.”

“I do not believe that will be necessary, Doctor.”

McCoy raised one eyebrow high.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I know Vulcans need less sleep than humans but Spock, make sure you rest tonight. You won’t do Jim any good exhausting yourself and I don’t wanna end up having to treat you both. One of you is hell enough on your own.”

“You said yourself that I was immune to this virus. Excluding the possibility of me becoming ill from it, I do not understand why you might need to treat me.”

“Just promise me you’ll sleep tonight. Properly. There’s no reason to lay awake watching him.”

“If it will make you feel better, I ‘promise’ I will get adequate rest tonight.”

“Thank you. Now I’m off. For real.”

And with those departing words, Doctor McCoy turned to leave Jim’s quarters.


	9. A Moment of (Relative) Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock takes a moment to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guysgalsnbpals, for being late with an update! Is it late, tho? I honestly have no idea. I've just been going, "yeah, it seems about time." But this weekend I was watching my godson so I had zero free time really. (Just a few hours after he went to sleep and the hour and a half to myself during nap time.) It was also majorly exhausting. Holy shit, I love the little monster but kids definitely aren't for me right now. (I mean, I could do it if my friend died, buuuuut I don't want to have that situation come about for more than one reason.)
> 
> Anyway, this is just a kind of fluffy little bit. Kind of a little something I was imagining for a while now when doing this fic. Well, this and the part where Jim gets all snuggly-sick up against Spock. Hope you enjoy it!

_~∞~_

Spock took McCoy’s advice and carefully removed himself from Jim’s bed to prepare for rest - though it caused him some mental ache to do so - laying Jim gently back onto the mattress once done extricating himself.

First, he did a bit of cleaning and replenishing of the supplies on the bedside table, making sure the waste receptacle was emptied and sanitized. After that, he went to his own quarters through their shared bathroom and changed into more comfortable clothing, taking some time to attend to his hygienic needs. He overrode the computer to keep the doors to the fresher propped open, listening for any change in Jim’s state.

When he returned to Jim’s quarters he was dressed in a dark brown pair of loose Vulcan trousers, silken and light as they were made for wear around one’s house. He wore no shirt, utilizing only his meditation robe for cover, leaving it undone. He felt refreshed and centered after taking the time to pull himself away from Jim, to attend his own mind and body. The routine was grounding and McCoy’s advice was sound. He could not forget his needs in the face of Jim’s.

He had heard Jim shifting around on the bed while he changed but as it had been nothing more drastic than that which happens in average Terran sleep cycles, Spock had not let it concern him overmuch. It was a bit of a surprise to find Jim curled tightly under his blanket with his pillows piled in the corner of his bed where it was set against the meeting of the bulkheads.

“Jim?” He called, and there was no response. Jim had not woken then. As though searching for Spock in his sleep he had tried to recreate the comfort he received curled against Spock’s chest.

Spock removed his robe and hung it in Jim’s closet before turning to kneel on the bed, carefully pulling Jim away from the bulkheads and the piled pillows. Then he rearranged the pillows up against the wall near the edge of the bed again, settling back against them. Jim snuffled into his blanket and made little noises of distress, trying to curl against Spock’s leg from where he was lying flat. Spock let the corners of his lips lift in fondness. He gently carded his fingertips through Jim’s lank hair to soothe him, keeping his shields firmly in place to limit any stimulation he might receive from the act.

Jim calmed. Spock was then able to lift Jim over his leg - cradling him close - and situate him once again between Spock’s legs and against his chest. Jim squirmed in his blanket cocoon, kicking his legs in small twitches and pawing the blanket aside until he was draped over Spock in the way that was most agreeable to him. Lying with their fronts pressed together, Jim’s nose rested in the hair on Spock’s chest, his soft exhales blowing barely-cooler than skin temperature over Spock’s sternum.

Spock draped one arm across Jim’s shoulders overtop the blanket and let his muscles relax into the embrace. Closing his eyes, he fell into a shallow, resting meditation.

He was in this state for 3.3 hours when Jim started in his sleep, coming awake with a gasp and scrambling backward off of Spock. His blanket fell from his shoulders as his hands found the mattress through the vee of Spock’s legs and he blearily blinked, trying vainly to open his eyes. Spock sat up but chose to remain leaning back to give Jim space as he was finally able to keep his eyes from falling shut.

Kneeling with legs akimbo, hands planted weightily on the bed and bearing most of his weight, Jim dragged hooded, bloodshot, entirely too-blue eyes around his sleeping space. He was very clearly disoriented and his breathing was heavy as he tried to focus on objects around the small room. He shivered as his body seemed to register the abrupt change in temperature from being under the blanket with Spock to the cooler ambient air of the cabin. His glassy gaze finally seemed to fall upon Spock and he stared long into Spock’s own eyes, face displaying nothing more than recognition and confusion.

Jim’s gaze dropped abruptly to somewhere in the vicinity of Spock’s navel and his abdominal muscles clenched with a quiver, a quiet gagging noise accompanying his slight hunching over.

This was all the warning Spock had to snatch up the waste receptacle and place it under Jim’s face before he was vomiting again, much less violently than previous instances. It built up behind his closed lips with multiple heaves and spilled out from between them. One of his hands raised up and moved to cover his mouth as though he believed he could prevent himself from vomiting by doing so. Spock caught the hand before Jim could make a mess of it, holding it down and away from his face while his body gave two more shudders, coagulated blood and bile exiting his stomach and dribbling from his parted lips.

Spock was ready with a tissue when Jim weakly raised his head and stared at him with glassy, sad, tired eyes. He mopped up the leftover sick on Jim’s mouth and chin, tossing the used tissue in the waste receptacle and moving it back to the floor. Jim watched his movements, fixated with an intensity that the actions did not require for such mundanity. He met Spock’s gaze once more before his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward. Startled, Spock caught him by the shoulders and guided Jim to press his forehead to the base of Spock’s neck.

Jim’s breathing seemed within normal parameters, his body warmer than it should have been but still not cause for concern, and his heartbeat that pressed against Spock’s ribs was no faster nor harder than acceptable for the average adult Terran male. Spock concluded that his sudden unconsciousness was due to exhaustion as his body fought off his ails.

He drew the blanket back up over Jim’s shoulders and carefully arranged him so he was laying against Spock’s chest, forehead resting on the side of his neck. The gentle sighs of Jim’s unconscious breaths fanned out over Spock’s right pectoral area and his heart thumped in the steady double beat of humans into Spock’s lower ribs. Spock found it calming as he cradled Jim with one arm to prevent him from sliding away in his sleep.

With his free hand, Spock reached for the damp cloth he kept in addition to the one Jim had been using on his face. Apprehensive of disturbing Jim too much, he slowly dabbed at Jim’s lips, noting how they were chapped and cracked in some places. He would need to provide a soothing balm for them soon or they would also begin bleeding.

It was illogical to do so in the middle of a rest cycle, though, so he placed the cloth back on the tray to be replaced with a clean one later, and he let his mind and body relax into a light slumber.


	10. The Calm Before...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy drops in for a check-up, Spock gains a small insight about Jim, and they both worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I eat chips. Ha. Anyway, an update on Jim's status while Spock and Bones (a little antagonistically) bond over their worry for him. So I might have maybe possibly started a little Uhura/Kirk thing. Because I feel like it. Don't worry. I'll finish this before I let myself get too far into that. But it might be a thing popping up soon!
> 
> THE BIG ONE OH! It's the tenth chapter of this story! YEAH! Thank you guys! Imma try something a lil dif at the end of the chapter, so stay tuned.

_~∞~_

Spock awoke to the door to Jim’s quarters opening. Seconds later, McCoy was at the edge of the partition, portable medkit in hand and one disapproving eyebrow raised.

“I guess I should just be glad that you took my advice,” he said quietly as he stepped up to the bed and set the kit down next to Spock’s leg. From it, he removed a pair of medical gloves and pulled them on.

“Indeed,” Spock said, equally as quiet. “The logic behind it was sound.”

Doctor McCoy’s only response was a head tilt and an eye roll while he eased Jim’s blanket down said man’s shoulders to better expose his face. He carefully lifted one eyelid and Jim flinched away, turning his head into Spock’s chest with a grunt and mumble.

“How’d he sleep? Any more puking?” the doctor asked, pulling out his medical tricorder next. He began the process of taking readings from Jim while Spock spoke.

“Well. Better than he had been before. He woke only once to vomit. It was much less violent than previous instances and while there was the presence of blood, it was mostly coagulated. I am hopeful that his stomach lining is beginning to heal.”

“Your hope’s not misplaced,” Doctor McCoy muttered, examining the readings from his tricorder. “The bleeding’s slowed and there’re signs of healing but infection’s worsened. The tears in his stomach and esophagus have become infected with bacteria, on top of the viral infection. His fever’s climbing towards severe. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“Before sleeping I noted that his fever spiked but it was still within parameters considered ‘mild,’” Spock said, wondering if the doctor was accusing him of being remiss with Jim’s care. Doctor McCoy gave a scoffing harrumph. Spock allowed himself a small frown.

“Well, it has passed ‘mild’ and is rapidly heading into ‘high.’ This is exactly what I was hoping to prevent last night.”

McCoy removed hyposprays from his medkit, reading labels and sorting them into two, neat piles on the bed. He administered five in succession. Jim, for his part, did not seem satisfied with his treatment and tried to curl and squirm away. Spock had to hold him in place and gently tip his head away from his shoulder where he was pressing his ear to protect his neck. Once this task was completed the doctor began monitoring Jim with his tricorder’s handheld sensor hovering near Jim’s face.

“Damn,” he muttered after five minutes and fifty-three seconds. He hastily administered two hyposprays from the separated pile and continued monitoring Jim for the next ten minutes in silence, face pinched frustration. He stared intently at the screen of his tricorder in his opposite hand the entire time.

“His fever dropped almost a whole degree and doesn’t seem to be headin’ back up,” Doctor McCoy finally said, and slid the sensor back into its holding slot. “With his allergies, it can be hit-and-miss when I synthesize alternatives and sometimes a paradoxical reaction can occur. Or no reaction at all. In this case, it exacerbated another problem. The anti-inflammatory I just gave him caused his fever to shoot up.”

McCoy hovered the tricorder over Jim’s stomach so the sensor could take a cursory reading of the organ’s state.

“And some of the tears have started bleedin’ again from the sudden decrease in swollen tissue.”

McCoy sighed heavily and eyed the way Spock held Jim, gaze lingering on the hand that had not left Jim’s face.

“He’s gonna puke again soon, and he probably won’t even wake up for it. Just letting you know. It’s gonna be a mess.”

“I am perfectly capable of both holding Jim in such a way to prevent that from happening, and if it were to cause a mess, cleaning it up.”

“Just thought I’d give you fair warning,” Doctor McCoy said. He reached out and placed the backs of his fingers to Jim’s exposed cheek. “If the next round of hypos don’t have an effect in the next few hours, we might have to resort to more drastic measures.”

“Such as what, Doctor?”

McCoy sighed.

“I can’t let the infection get any worse. It’ll only cause more problems for Jim and prolong this. Beyond the next week, if I’m bein’ honest here. If I don’t see a marked change when I come back later to check in, I’m gonna have to do a round of endoscopic regeneration. Better to nip this in the bud before it gets worse, even though the procedure is bit invasive. I’ve been hopin’ he’d be better from the meds last night but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

McCoy rubbed one eye with the knuckles of one hand.

“Just can’t make this easy, can ya, Jim,” he muttered. Then proceeded with, “Alright, next round of meds. I’m giving him a couple hypos chock full of vitamins to boost his antibody production along with the duplicates of pretty much everything I gave him last night. Still got that hypospray for anaphylaxis?”

“Affirmative. It is right there on the edge of the tray by the electrolyte solution you prescribed.”

McCoy was injecting Jim in a specific order but he took a minute to glance over.

“Good. Good. You’ve been able to get him to drink it then?”

“Not as much as he should be consuming but combined with the other suggestions for liquid intake, I have been able to keep him adequately hydrated.”

“I noticed, Spock,” McCoy grumped, the hiss of his last hypospray punctuating his sentence. “I’m just glad I haven’t had to hook him up intravenously. If you think Jim’s reaction to hypos is bad, you should see him when he’s hooked up to a needle.”

The doctor then packed up his medkit and rolled off his gloves, tossing them into the waste receptacle. He frowned and placed his hands on his hips, staring down at the bucket.

“You been using biohazard protocols for that thing?” he asked and Spock was actually mildly offended.

“Of course, Doctor,” he said. “It is standard procedure and would be negligent to do otherwise.”

“So everything is being kept sanitized, then. Good. Great.”

“If I may inquire, Doctor. Why does your tone imply there is something wrong?”

McCoy sighed again.

“As long as I’ve known him, Jim doesn’t just get a little sick. Shit starts to snowball, until everyone involved is up shit-creek without a single paddle to spare. The kid almost died from a _cold_ in our first year at the Academy, for Christ’s sake! And I’m not sayin’ Jim’s a sickly guy but everything just _compounds_ with him. We’re all just lucky he gets injured more than he ever gets sick. And we all know how hard it is to treat him when he’s hurtin’. What I’m sayin’, Spock, is that I don’t actually see him gettin’ any better without first gettin’ a whole helluva lot worse. I _want_ this to be easy. I was hopin’ it was goin’a be, what with you stickin’ round here to care for him-”

“Doctor.” Spock cut him off and McCoy seemed to come back to himself from whatever it was fueling his frustrated ranting over Jim’s state. “Your accent is becoming more prominent. I suggest taking a deep breath and gaining a better grasp of your emotions.”

“Why you- you damned hobgoblin! I-”

The doctor cut himself short and turned away, taking a deep breath even as his hands curled into fists.

“You’re- You’re right. Sorry. I’m going to head to back to sickbay since I only had time to stop in and report before coming up here. If his condition changes even slightly you’re going to hail me there and tell me exactly what is going on with your obsessively Vulcan precision of language, because, while I’m hopeful that he gets better, I am fully expecting shit to hit the fan very quickly.”

McCoy gathered up his medkit and turned on his boot heel, making purposeful strides from Jim’s quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To people reading through all the way for the first time, does this flow well? I feel like it does, but oftentimes these things only make sense to me.
> 
> To those who are still here from previous chapters, how are you enjoying the relationship between Bones and Spock?


	11. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones's perspective. Poor Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my dudes, I'm sorry for the wait. It was my birthday recently and I was doing stuff. Anyway, sad ahead. Heads up. It should get better after this.
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

The intercom whistled.

“Spock to sickbay,” came the hail.

“McCoy here.”

It hadn’t even been two hours. The tight thing that had been growing in Bones' gut rolled over and dropped like an overripe peach from the branch, landing with a splat somewhere near his feet. Something _had_ to be terribly wrong.

“Jim’s fever is increasing once more and his respiration has slowed. In addition, he seems to be suffering from urticaria on his limbs. But I am unsure if this is an allergic reaction or not.”

“Give him the hypo, Spock,” Bones told him urgently, smacking his hand down on the desktop next to the intercom speaker. “If it’s not an allergic reaction, the medication won’t affect him and we’ve got a bigger problem. Now, I’m gonna need you to check his pulse, preferably in his neck.”

“I’ve administered the hypospray. And I’m placing my digitus minimus over his carotid artery. It will be a moment before I can give you his heart rate.”

“Good, Spock, but I don’t need an exact rate, just slower or faster than average. I’m going to start prepping things down here. How hot do you think his fever is?”

“I believe it is approximately one hundred and six degrees fahrenheit.”

“Shit! Shit. Nurse!”

The nearest unoccupied nurse scurried over to his doorway, looking worried. It was Nwalliho, a second generation Betazoid-human hybrid. Her empathic ratings were high but beyond that, she seemed telepathically psi-null.

“Nurse Nwalliho! I need you to head into the hydrotherapy room and prepare an ice bath. Then I need to you to gather up a bloodwork kit and the supplies to set a cold saline drip.”

“What is wrong, Doctor?” Spock asked over the intercom while Nurse Nwalliho trotted off to do what Bones had ordered.

“You got that report on his pulse?” Bones asked instead of answering.

“Arrhythmic and faster than average. The hypospray does not seem to be doing anything to combat his symptoms.”

“Shit. God damn! That’s because it isn’t an allergic reaction. Okay, Spock, I need to you bring him down here _stat!_ McCoy out.”

And with that, Bones was jogging to the med-grade synthesizer in the locked room where they stored all the hazardous medical supplies. Having been Jim’s friend for years it was easy to start punching in codes for an antibiotic powerful enough to work on what he thought Jim might have without killing him. He was still gonna hit him with a safeguard and a boost, just in case. Jim had survived fucking radiation poisoning and a subsequent revival from death. No way was Bones gonna let him die now.

He had just finished, armed with three different hypospray cartridges, when Spock came bursting through the doors. Bones was headed in his direction before he actually focused on what he was seeing.

Spock was rushing to meet him, shirtless still and wearing his pajama bottoms. Cradled in his arms like precious cargo was Jim, also shirtless— And completely _limp_. His head and one arm were tucked against Spock’s hairy chest, the other arm hanging limply down. Jim’s face was pinched and red and sweaty; his cracked lips were parted as he breathed heavily and shallowly. And covering his arms and the little bit of his legs Bones could see - from the shin down - were splotchy, bright red, swollen rashes.

And he was shaking.

“Doctor,” Spock greeted tightly, and Bones could hear his distress from that, see it in the robotic movements of his body.

Bones said nothing but he did snatch up Jim’s arm and press the contents of the first cartridge loaded into the crook of his elbow. It was ejected and another was loaded. He repeated the motion twice.

“This way,” he heard himself saying, switching to autopilot as he tugged them along, manhandling Spock by the upper arm. They headed toward one of the private rooms in the back of sickbay, where Bones could hear the splash of water and saw Nurse Nwalliho returning with a tub of the supplies he had requested.

“What is wrong with Jim, Doctor?” Spock asked and Bones realized he’d never answered the man before when they were on the intercom.

He wasn’t going to now.

They were already in the room and he was barking orders at Nurse Nwalliho.

“Cut his pants off and slap a modesty wrap around him. Then I want you to take a blood sample and test for sepsis and toxic shock. Look for anything else out of the ordinary too, just in case.”

Before he was done speaking Nurse Nwalliho had finished cutting Jim’s pants and already had the stretchy modesty wrap draped over Jim’s lap while the tattered fabric previously covering him hung from Spock’s arm where it was still under Jim’s knees. She fastened the wrap at Jim’s lower back and moved to tear open the blood sample kit.

“Is that what Jim has?” Spock asked, standing there and following every movement in the room with his eyes. Bones was fastening the cushioned head support to the bottom of the tub - sleeves rolled up and elbow deep in freezing water and a thick layer of floating ice chips.

“Possibly. Could be tetanus, though I’m not sure how. Could be an infected perforation in his gastrointestinal tract. Could be something else entirely. Even a tricorder can only give basic imaging and a list of possibilities. The blood work will tell us for sure. For now though…”

He stood up and checked Jim’s temperature and heart rate with a nearby tricorder, syncing the rest of the results to his file to look over later. Nurse Nwalliho had disappeared when his back was turned.

“Damn,” he couldn’t help but say. “He’s at a hundred-and-eight-point-two. Quick. Get him into the bath.”

Spock stepped up to the metal tub and gently began lowering Jim’s unconscious form into it. Bones quickly tugged free the shredded pants and tossed them to join the underwear scrap on the floor.

As soon as his lower half hit the water, already partially submerged, Jim came alive with a gasp. His eyes snapped open and he thrashed, clawing at Spock’s neck and shoulder.

“No, please! No cold! I don’t want to be cold again!” he gasped, kicking at the bottom of the tub and trying to pull himself up and out. Waves of splashing water sloshed over the side of the shallow tub.

Bones saw Spock’s arms tighten around Jim as if to pull him back out and he lunged forward, gently wrestling with Jim’s legs still in the water.

“I’m sorry, Jimbo, but we have to get your fever down,” he tried to explain as Jim fought harder, showering them both with freezing water. “Spock! A little help here! You have to let go of him!”

He saw Spock hesitate and Jim clung tighter, fingernails raising bright green welts down Spock’s neck in a scrabble for a better hold. A constant litany of “no” and “please no” were coming from Jim, who looked to be on the verge of tears. Shit, Bones should have thought to sedate him.

“Spock! You have to put him in the water or his temperature won’t go down. If his temperature isn’t lowered he’ll end up in a coma. Do you want to see him like that again? Go through that again?”

There was a beat as Bones shoved Jim’s legs flat on the bottom of the tub but then Spock was shaking his head, looking pained.

“I apologize, Jim,” he whispered, reaching for the arm around his neck and prying it free. He held it mid-forearm and pulled the other from over his shoulder. Jim, eyes glassy and bloodshot as tears spilled down his face, tried to wrench them away, throwing waves of water around with his jerks. But Spock, with his greater strength, lowered him into the water and held him there, arms pressed into his chest.

Jim immediately began shivering, twisting and jerking and crying to try and get free. It was obvious he thought he was somewhere else.

“I don’t wan’a b-be cold ag-gain. Ple-ease. Always so cold. I’ll do anyth-thing. I-I p-p-pro-omise. Just n-no more cold-d-d,” he begged, clearly delirious.

“Jim, I want you to listen real close here,” Bones said, and gently massaged Jim’s thighs just above the knee where his hands were resting. “We’re not them and you’re not there. You’re **_not_** _there_. You’re James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the Starship _Enterprise_ , NCC number one-seven-zero-one. I want you to look at me, Jim.”

Jim blinked, like he was trying to process, trying to pay attention, still partially checked out as he stared at the ceiling.

“Look at me, Jimbo.”

Jim reluctantly dragged his eyes to Bones' face and blinked in confusion several times.

“Do ya remember who I am, darlin’? Can you tell me my name?”

“B...B-Bones?”

“Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart. And who else is here?”

Jim’s gaze flickered over to Spock, hovering over the rim of the tub up near his torso.

“Spock,” he breathed and there was a level of relief to it that Bones was uncomfortable witnessing.

“Spock,” he repeated, and his whole body relaxed almost instantly, mild tremors still in the muscles beneath Bones' hands.

“That’s good, darlin’, take some deep breaths for me. Just a little longer, kid.”

“How long must he remain in the water?” Spock asked, voice tight and soft.

“A full ten minutes. Then we’re pullin’ him out, dryin’ him off, and placin’ ‘im on a bio bed. I’ll take another reading of his core temperature and we’re goin’a start him on a chilled saline drip. By then, hopefully we know what’s wrong with ‘im and I can get ‘im started on the treatment to fix it. And I think at this point I’m goin’a have ta check ‘im out with an endoscope anyway.”

“Doctor, your accent is worsening again.”

“Shut up, ya damn green-blooded hobgoblin. Your pretentiousness is showing again.”

Bones checked the chronometer on the wall and made to stand up but Jim jerked suddenly, a small fearful grunt escaping him as Bones' hands left his legs. Bones placed them back and looked at Spock.

“Your turn,” he simply said, and Spock looked to Jim and let go of his arms. Jim hands shot up out of the water in a spray and desperately grasped at them. He whimpered. Spock carefully took Jim’s wrists and held them, lowering them back to his chest and under the water.

“Alright,” Bones said and lifted his hands again, water dripping from his arms and _splish_ -plopping back into the tub. Jim made a noise in the back of his throat.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he said gently to Jim, who was following him with his gaze as he stood. Bones began backing away toward the cabinet that held the bath sheets. “We’re pullin’ you outta that bath now. Gonna dry you off and take you to a nice, cozy room. You’re not there and we’re not leaving you, darlin’. Don’t fret your pretty little head.”

He pulled out one of the large towels and laid it out on the floor, close to the tub. Then he grabbed another and left it folded nearby.

“Ready, Spock,” he said, and bent down to grab under Jim’s knees. Spock adjusted his hold on Jim by placing his hands under his arms and grabbing his ribs. “One, two, three.”

And they pulled Jim out of the tub in a cascade of frigid, turbulent water. Quickly, they placed him on the laid out sheet and bundled him tightly in it, rubbing his skin dry with careful but efficient motions. Jim remained silent, watching and lightly chattering his teeth. He never took his eyes off Spock once the Vulcan moved to softly petting his hair dry with a corner of the towel.

Bones took the distraction as a good time to remove the wrap from Jim and slip a pair of white medical undergarments over his legs, fastening them at the hip.

“Lift him up, Spock, so I can get a dry towel around him,” Bones ordered and Spock obeyed, barely sparing him a glance as he cradled Jim close and helped Bones wrap him in the extra towel.

“And I think it’s time to relocate,” he said and stood, allowing Spock to slip his arm under Jim’s knees and lift him up all on his own.

They moved further back in sickbay to the private rooms and Bones keyed open the one he usually put Jim in. Spock placed Jim on the bed with an almost reverent gentleness, even as Jim was starting to fade into unconsciousness again. Bones found that Nurse Nwalliho had left the IV kit and saline bag in the small cooling unit in the room. Bones loved his nurses. Really, he did.

It took no time at all to poke the needle into Jim’s arm, hook up the bag, and insert the line into the catheter while Spock pet Jim’s hair and soothed him. By that time, Nurse Nwalliho was returning to the room with a pad held out to him.

“Typical,” he muttered to himself but as usual, Spock heard.

“What is ‘typical?’”

He tapped the memo pad open and jotted down a line of codes with his finger to synthesize a couple rounds of Jim-friendly antibiotics, then sent them to Nurse Nwalliho’s handheld padd in her pocket. She retrieved it when it _blooped_ and checked the list before nodding once and leaving.

“He tests positive for _both_ of the bacteria that causes toxic shock _and_ a separate bacteria that’s entered his bloodstream. We’re going to have to put him on all of the drugs and do some endoscopic regeneration as soon as his fever’s down to an acceptable level. Shit. I just knew this was going to happen.”

Bones sighed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, already starting a schedule for Jim’s treatment in his head.

“He’d been doing so good recently, I thought, ‘hey, maybe this time it’ll be different! I pumped him full of super serum and we practically replaced all of his blood. He was doing so much better that some of his more mild allergies even disappeared! It’ll be _different. normal. easy_.’ And of course, Jim just loves to prove me - and everyone else - wrong.”

“What happens now, Doctor?” Spock asked and Bones looked at him, truly examined him. He saw the way Spock leaned protectively over Jim’s curled form, the way he continued to card his fingers through Jim’s hair, saw the worried tightness around his eyes and in the hinge of his jaw, the rigidity of his posture.

Bones sighed heavily.

“I get him on antibiotics. We keep him hooked up to a drip and get his fever down, hold it there. Then I go in and heal him up from the inside-out. We sanitize every _thing_ and every _one_ on this goddamned ship - because if the bacteria is present and Jim has it, anyone else can end up the same - and we make him comfortable. Then, maybe if he’s better at the end of this week, we can move him back into his quarters. But only if I can get the ship scrubbed down and Jim’s quarters done twice over.”

Bones could see Spock about to say, _“That is most illogical, Doctor. A second sanitization process would be completely unnecessary.”_ But then he looked down at Jim’s unconscious face, still flushed - but less so, and Bones saw something closer to angry, tense agreement in his gaze.

“I will give out the order myself, Doctor.”

And if it were possible, Bones knew Spock would fight off any bacteria, virus, or microbe that threatened Jim’s health himself.

He went toe-to-toe with Khan for Jim. At this point, Bones suspected there was nothing Spock wouldn’t do to save their captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ice baths. They aren't a thing. Except for athletes. Some athletes do it. But medically, it's not a thing. Cool baths yes. Ice, no. But for the sake of drama, it's a thing. Let's just pretend that Bones is doing like a double whammy on that fever. A one-two knockout. See, it totally makes sense like that.
> 
> Side note, as much as I'm loving torturing Jim, I'm having even more much fun making Spock an upsetti-spaghetti over it. Your thoughts?


	12. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock struggles with his emotions over Jim's treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what guys! Another chapter! Because I'm having feels. And I'm also trying to motivate myself into writing. (Side note, why does my brain have to keep coming up with a billion and one cool stories. I've got a Tarsus one I want to do, a pre-reform Vulcan style one, and, now, an aliens-made-them-do-it type of get-together fic. Brain, slow down. I can only do so much!) I'm trying so hard to make this the priority, though. Bear with me!
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

Shortly after his ice bath and the introduction of cooled fluids into his body, a cluster of nurses created a whirlwind of choreographed movement as they thoroughly washed and scanned and sterilized Jim and the room around him. Spock was ushered out, made to watch through the ALON wall next to the door as the nurses worked efficiently through a seemingly endless amount of tasks. Even as the biobed’s forcefield walls were raised and the whole thing was disengaged from the wall port for transport, the nurses carried on.

They exited the room without breaking rank around Jim and Spock realized he was being prepped and moved to the OR. Spock matched their brisk pace as he followed as close behind as possible without getting in the way, not letting his eyes stray from Jim’s unconscious form. Spock, having never truly witnessed a full medical staff work - except from the edges of triage stations - was quite impressed as one of the nurses used the intravenous catheter in Jim’s arm to administer sedatives in tandem with another nurse applying a face mask, all without speaking.

It was a truly impressive display that Spock would feel more excitement at witnessing if not for the fact that it was Jim they were working on— all of it happening because of Jim’s rapidly declining state of wellness. In just over a standard day, Jim had gone from having a simple case of gastrointestinal upset to a possibly fatal infection of his blood.

Spock was halted from accidentally following the contingent of nurses into the prepared operating room by a brawny nurse who had one dark hand outstretched in front of Spock’s chest but consciously not touching it. Spock gave part of a thought to acquiring a shirt and discarded it once the nurse began explaining that he could watch from a small, darkened observational room.

The nurse showed him the room and he was left alone in there to watch as several different scanners were set up around the operating table to run diagnostics on different areas of Jim’s body and feed all relevant data to the biomonitor on the wall across from where McCoy stood in fresh scrubs and gloves. Jim was transferred to the table in the center of the sterility field and McCoy, two nurses, and another doctor converged on Jim to begin their endoscopic surgeries in Jim’s upper gastrointestinal tract.

It was difficult to watch as the length of the endoscope was fed into Jim’s propped-open mouth while the man was completely unaware of what was going on. In the day of modern medicine, it seemed like an incredibly invasive procedure. It seemed almost violating and Spock found himself pressing one hand flat against the ALON window with a creeping desperation filling his mind. He _needed_ to _savehelpprotect_ Jim.

When Spock noticed how he was pressing his hand to the window - the same hand he had pressed against the door to the warp core chamber - he quickly withdrew it and clenched it at his lower back, appalled and ashamed.

He forced himself to remain calm, employing the advanced meditation methods of those who chose to go through with _kolinahr_ to help him maintain this stoicism— techniques he had first learned as a troubled child. (A sine qua non his mother opposed and his father found concerning, even as both allowed him the concession. From it, he had mastered techniques it took adult Vulcans years of study to become proficient at. Necessity was the mother of advancement, after all.)

After the endoscope was slowly removed, and Spock expected the operation to be over, a device that was attached to an arm on the ceiling was brought to hover over Jim’s abdominal cavity. Spock recognized it immediately as a surgical tool before McCoy pressed his face close to the viewscreen on it and then his gloves were stained and streaked red. Multiple gloves were, as two other sets of hands assisted his. At the sight of Jim’s blood, a small spike of fear penetrated Spock’s careful control and his unclenched hand spasmed into a tight fist. It was the same fear he had felt hours previously when Jim had first vomited up blood.

And he had let himself believe Jim would be alright, let McCoy assure him with his knowledge of what was normal for Jim. Anger - boiling, irrational, consuming anger - pressed thick up against the walls of his forced calm, distorting his grasp on his emotions enough that a momentary _hatred_ of the doctor overtook him. It was only a sliver of the same feeling he had felt when facing Khan, but it still threatened his control.

Just the barest thought of Khan, and the similarities of then and now, had a deep green rage twisting through him. It had been a disturbing realization for Spock when he was forced to consider the possibility that as long as the augment was still alive (even locked away, frozen and buried somewhere only Level 1 Top Secret Security Cleared Individuals in Starfleet would find him) he would have that feeling toward the man tucked away deep inside somewhere.

By the time McCoy was finished and Jim was being transferred back into his biobed, Spock had somehow worked himself into such a capricious frenzy that he _only just_ held himself back from snarling at a nurse that came to fetch him. Apparently Jim’s medical history and his susceptibility to further infection and complications necessitated the use of full sterility. Spock was denied the right to follow Jim back into his room in sickbay until he underwent the sterilization procedures approved of by Doctor McCoy.

Spock once again felt a certain hatred he didn’t fully understand for the man.

But if it would protect Jim and facilitate a quicker recovery, Spock would submit himself to the preventative measures. The doctor personally oversaw it all and decided to give Spock a round of hyposprays he called ‘boosters’ before letting him back into Jim’s room.

A portable sterilization station had been placed next to Jim’s door. Spock wasn’t required to use it as he was already as clean as it was possible for one being to be and the sickbay was, Spock theorized, as clean as it was physically possible for any Federation space to be. McCoy utilized the station and tugged a paper mask over his mouth before entering Jim’s room with Spock.

Next to the bed, one of the nurses had placed an ergonomically comfortable chair. McCoy snorted when he saw it.

“Problem, Doctor?” Spock asked, barely managing to keep his voice tense instead of growling.

“Not a thing, hobgoblin,” McCoy muttered, walking towards Jim just as the captain’s eyes began to twitch with a return of consciousness

Spock resigned himself to the irrational emotions he predicted he would be feeling in regular fits that would test his control until Jim improved.

McCoy brushed Jim’s hair from his forehead and Spock, once again, desired to break his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you all loving protective!Spock? I, personally, am a big fan. I just eat that shit up with room for seconds always.
> 
>  **Edit:** Oh my god guys! Y'all! Brofriends! I just got the best review on my ffnet posting of this fic right before I updated with the next chapter! Xe (reviewer) called it ew! Xe said I overdid it with the descriptions and that I was sadistic! Xe could feel my glee from where they were! It was great! 9/10 review! 11/10 would read again! It was borderline flamey!


	13. Dopey Mopey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is conscious, _and_ aware. Mostly. He's also really doped up. Dopey Jim is mopey Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who commented, but especially those that left engaging reviews! They really inspired me to write (about 2300 more words). I had concrete ideas after reading some of them and it really helped me get them down out of my head.
> 
> Tags have been slightly updated. Just a heads up, there's mention of drug abuse in this chapter. Very brief.
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

His throat hurt.

Jim’s eyelids flickered open for half a second before falling shut again. Just long enough for him to know he was in sickbay by the greyish halflight filling the room. There were two vaguely-blue, people-shaped blobs nearby. Something was touching his forehead.

He sighed deeply, feeling woozy and foggy. He hated it. Hated it. He was so… so exposed. Drugs. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe he used to do that shit for fun.

Fuck.

Everything was heavy, even the air. It felt like it was pressing in on him from all sides. He wanted to panic, felt like he might be. He was claustrophobic and weak. All of his emotions felt like they were stuck in a whirlpool in his stomach, his chest. He felt _something_ , and almost before he could identify it, it was gone, swirling away with the effects of what he was on.

And he couldn’t figure out what was going on. What had happened to have him in medical? Why was he missing time? Why was he in sickbay? What if he had completely forgotten a huge chunk of his life? What if he never figured it out? He tried to think about it. He couldn’t remember. Memories felt… Unreal. Like he was reaching for a swirl of sand in the wind. The last thing he could remember was—

Was.

…was.

Fuck.

What- What was he trying to do?

Was it sleep?

Because that sounded good.

Just drift off and not feel for awhile. His _whole body_ felt nauseous.

He blinked and his eyes were open. Kind of. The blob he was looking at became slightly more defined. Fuck. Where were his glasses? He uh- he wasn’t reading. Why would he need his glasses? Bones said if he wore them his eyesight might self-correct but he hated how old fashioned and vintage-poser he looked. Why was he fucking allergic to everything… …?

Bones was touching his forehead. What was Bones doing? Why was he…. Uh….

Bones.

Why was he down in medbay again?

Had he been on shift? Did something happen?

He opened his mouth to ask and grabbed for Bones' fingers touching his forehead.

Tried to.

His hand was caught by something. He frowned and turned to look over at his other side. His head lolled with the motion and his throat felt tight, like he might puke. Wait. Wasn’t he sick before? Is that why he was in sickbay?

He clenched his trapped hand and felt a …hand(?) clench back.

Jim forced his eyes to focus and—

It was Spock!

It was Spock?

Why was Spock holding his hand? Jim blushed. Maybe. It felt like he might be. He felt a weird, hazy, burning sort of reverence.

“Spock is holding my hand,” he might have whispered. Or, “ ‘pok ss hold’n’ m’and.”

His tongue wasn’t working right. But Spock was definitely being a naughty Vulcan. Indecent. Dirty? Jim smiled. With the half of his face he could get to work right. He’d given up on keeping both eyes completely open at the same time.

Fuck.

How many drugs did Bones pump him into him? Why the fuck had he thought pharmaceuticals were fun when he was younger?

He forgot about the hand holding his and tried to rub his face.

…

Right.

Did this mean Spock liked him back?

Was Spock listening to his brain? That’s dumb. He shouldn’t be. Jim’s brain was a clusterfuck. A marshmallowy clusterfuck. With all the nuts.

Jim realized then that Spock wasn’t dressed like a Science Officer™. He was in patient scrubs.

Jim gasped!

Was Spock sick too? Did Jim make him sick?

Jim tried to reach over and pat Spock’s hand with his other one but the IV attached to it made it too hard. It tugged. Weird. Unable to feel pain and all. It just kind of pulled. Wait.

There was a needle in his arm! A needle. Oh, god, he had to get it out. It was hooked up to a bag hanging from the wall hook. He didn’t know what was in that bag! This couldn’t happen again. He tugged at the hand Spock was holding but Spock wouldn’t let go. He rolled his other wrist around, pressing his arm against the bed and rubbing, needing to dislodge the needle.

A hand gripped his arm and pressed it to the bed. He tried to yank it free but he was too weak. Gods, he was so weak.

“Hey, darlin’,” Bones said quietly and Jim looked at him, or well, what he could see above Bones' mask. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you, Jim. You trust me, yeah?”

Bones paused and Jim realized he was supposed to respond. He didn’t even have to think about nodding his head, even as it made him dizzy and wobbly.

“I would never let anything happen to you, sweetheart. This,” he touched the needle in Jim’s arm, “is Bones Approved, okay.”

Jim smiled and turned his arm over in Bones’ hold, sliding it up awkwardly to pat Bones’ hand with his fingers. He appreciated the joke. Then he attempted to reach over to pat Spock’s hand. He couldn’t leave Spock out.

Bones let go, but the IV was still a problem. He slid his arm back and forth on the bed watching the tubing drag along with it.

Maybe if he could sit up…

He tried to lift his head and was too tired to keep it more than an inch up off the pillow.

He gave up and whined, unhappy.

There were two pats he owed Spock now. He was probably the reason Spock was stuck in sickbay scrubs. Poor Spock. Jim was such a shit friend. And he just— _loved Spock so much_. He loved Bones too - cut a look at his doctor and best friend so he would know Jim never excluded him from his thoughts, needed him to know how grateful and undeserving Jim felt about Bones’ friendship - but… What? Oh, Spock. Jim had made him sick.

He wanted to cry. Needed Spock to know he was sorry about that. Spock should have left him alone, like he told him to.

“You- Jim,” Spock said and he sounded upsetti. Vulcans don’t show their emotions. He wasn’t upsetti-spaghetti. Not over Jim. But he said Jim’s name all soft and quiet! Gentle-like.

Maybe he didn’t blame Jim.

“I am not ill, ashayam,” Spock said and touched Jim’s jawline with two fingers. Jim smiled at him. Oh, goodie.

“Jimbo,” Bones said and Jim forced himself to turn and look at his best friend. His best friend! Bones was such a great friend… He took such good care of Jim and all his fucked-up-ed-ness.

Jimmy was such a shit-friend for him too. He could do so much better for Bones. He wanted to be best for him. Because Bones could do better than him. But Jimmy didn’t want him to leave. He needed Bones. Best Friend Bones.

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re drifting off there,” Bones cooed at him. Jim sighed and forced his eyes back to his friend. Bones never cooed unless it was bad. Jim frowned.

“Do you know where you are?” He asked and Jim nodded. A lot. His stomach flip-flopped.

“Do you know why?” Jim thought about it. Thought hard. He had been sick. Spock… He’d almost puked on Spock.

Dammit.

Jim nodded.

“Okay,” Bones exhaled loudly and scrubbed at his stubble under his mask. Oh no. He was about to say something _really_ bad. “Alright, darlin’, you’re very sick. You’ve got toxic shock and sepsis, and it looks like we might have to watch you for pneumonia now. We’ve had to go in and get rid of the infection in your stomach. There were some infected ulcers in your intestines as well. But you’re all healed up now. We just have to get rid of the stuff already there. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Jim nodded. A bit too enthusiastically, maybe. It made him feel icky. Sicky. Wrong.

“We’ve done what we can for now but you’re going to have to stay here in medbay for awhile.”

Jim shook his head and whined. He hated sickbay! He _hated_ sickbay. Needles, _more_ needles, and touching and defenselessness and drugs that did what they were doing now, made him weak and sick and gross.

“I know, darlin’, I know,” Bones cooed again, and Jim glared at him. “But we don’t have any choice. Spock will be here with you, though. He’s going to make sure you’re okay, Jimbo. You trust him, right?”

Jim looked at Spock. He found Spock’s dark eyes watching him intently. In another situation….

“D’zzzn’t know?” He asked.

“No, sweetheart, he doesn’t know. And I won’t tell him. I’ll let you decide on that when you’re feelin’ better,” Bones reassured him and Jim loved him so much. Platonically. Bones was such a bro. A real one. He got Jim so well.

“Kay,” Jim said and nodded happily. He squeezed Spock’s hand and closed his eyes.

Abruptly, he drifted away into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've never had a needle in my arm for an intravenous drip or anything. The closest is when I've poked myself with one or when I've gotten shots at the doctor's. Piercings tho, I'd imagine feel similar. I've also never come out of anesthesia. But I've had bouts with sleep paralysis, fallen asleep and woken up with no memory of doing so, and been levels of exhausted I've not been able to comprehend. I'm drawing on these to get an idea of what it's like. So, inaccuracies. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm also feeling pretty tired right now and a bit out of it due to my mom trying to get Life Advice™ from me during my nap. I'm having some mild dissociation, so forgive my inability to be engaging.


	14. Losing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's in and out of it. Bones kicks Spock out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know I l♥ve you! Thank you all for the engaging and amazing comments. It was probably the only bright spot of these last couple days. (They've been pretty crap emotionally. It did cause me to do a read-through of what I've already posted, though, so small mistakes have been corrected.)
> 
> Remember to check the tags for new warnings.

_~∞~_

JT woke with a scream and a thrash. Hands were immediately on his shoulders, pressing him back into the bed he was on and he reached for the arms attached. He dug his fingernails into the vulnerable skin he felt and clawed. The person - man, pressing him back didn’t respond.

He also didn’t bleed red, which meant he wasn’t human. JT paused and took a good look at the man.

Vulcan.

There weren’t any Vulcans on the colony. Fuck. Right. Starfleet.

JT collapsed back onto the bed. And the Vulcan let him. He took a deep breath and glanced to his left.

Then he looked around and past the Vulcan at his right in a panic.

Ice. cold. adrenaline.

“Where are my kids?” he asked, and when the Vulcan tilted his head slightly with confusion, louder he yelled, “Where are my _fucking_ kids!?”

“Jim, I don’t know what children you speak of,” the Vulcan said in his stupid Vulcan way.

“Kids! The fucking kids that were brought on board with me! Where the fuck are they? We weren’t supposed to be separated! I’m all they have right now!”

JT reached for the catheter for his IV and tried to unplug it, but mishandled the connection only to yank the tubing out instead. It fucking hurt and he started oozing blood all over the sheets around him. The Vulcan had reached for him, probably trying to stop him, but at the sight of JT’s arm bleeding, froze. He didn’t fucking care, though. He needed to find his kids. That’s all that mattered. He had to know they were safe.

He tried to get up and the world spun around him. The Vulcan reacted and caught him before he could fall off his biobed. JT punched weakly at his soft spots. He needed to go. He had to leave.

FuUUUuuuUUUUCk!

The goddamn Vulcan was too fucking strong and JT was too weak besides. His hits were useless.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” the Vulcan said quietly and JT had all of a nanosecond to throw half a thought as to why, before there was a sharp, lancing pain at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

He slipped into blackness…

**≡**

Jim drifted into half-consciousness warm and safe and comfortable. He wiggled backward into the body behind his that was filling him up with these feelings.

≡

JT screamed his way into consciousness. He was burning from the inside out. His stomach and chest were on fire. What had they poisoned him with this time? He clawed at his ribs and sternum. He clutched at his own throat as the burning crawled up it on the inside. He was in hell, and he was burning.

≡

Jim rolled over and puked, conscious just long enough to hear it hit the floor. He coughed and spit and was out again.

≡

Jim’s beating heart woke him. It was too fast. Where was he? What was going on? Where were his kids? Where was his family? There wasn’t anyone around. Wasn’t there supposed to be someone? At least one person? Was it all a hallucination? Was he still stuck in that tiny hellhole, delirious and hallucinating everything?

His body hurt. His mind hurt. His chest hurt. His stomach burned and his mouth was dry. Oh gods, he was still there, wasn’t he?

He was hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to puke. He couldn’t be there! He’d rather die! He couldn’t _breathe_!

Ten too-fast breaths later and he was unconscious.

≡

Jim hurt. Everywhere. His skin felt like it had been scrubbed raw, especially around his hands and feet. He was itchy. And sting-y. Tingly. And his joints felt creaky-achy. He was made of tin. And he was rusting away.

≡

There was an IV in his arm. He was in a biobed in a medical ward somewhere, and there was an IV in his arm. He hated IVs.

Jim reached for it with his free hand and carefully touched the edge of the plastic covering it, keeping it in, in place. Eugh. He scratched at the edge until it was curling up and slowly peeled it off. In movies, it always showed characters just tugging them free but Jim knew that was wrong. That shit hurt. And it made a huge mess.

Clumsily, he pressed his thumb down just above the hole where the needle had poked under his skin. Then, with only slightly fumbling fingers, he pushed the plug down his arm. The tiny tube slipped out and the whole mess fell to the floor. Good.

The fog in his brain wouldn’t disappear for awhile but he had to get out before then. Nurses made rounds and he’d prefer to be gone by the time the next one came by. Ignoring the trickle of blood coming from under his thumb, he wiggled around a bit and forced himself to sit up. An intense level of nausea overcame him and he dropped his forehead onto a bent knee, breathing heavily with his mouth open. Saliva pooled under his tongue and dripped from his bottom lip. He nearly gagged.

When he lifted his head back up the world was tilted. He couldn’t focus at all; like his eyes were trying to track spinning objects, they kept drifting away from what he was looking at. He squeezed his eyes shut and became aware of the throb of his heartbeat under his skin. In his arm. Under his thumb. He pried his eyelids up and found the tiny spot where the IV had been.

Then, he lifted his thumb. Immediately blood squirted out, covering his arm and dripping all over his sheets and blankets. His heart throbbed, his arm throbbed, and blood pulsed from the little hole. It was much easier to focus on.

“Ashayam!”

Jim glanced up. Oh. Spock.

Spock was in the doorway of the little bathroom closet in the room. Rushing over. Gripping Jim’s arm and shakily calling for someone.

“Goddamnit, Jim!” A voice boomed as the door to the room slid open.

Bones.

Jim looked down at his lap, covered in blood. Patient shirt smeared with it. Arm staining Spock.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

He passed out.

≡

Jim opened his eyes and squinted until he could see his First Officer’s face hovering unusually close to his. He smiled and ducked his head, finding that Spock was close enough Jim’s forehead pressed against Spock’s collarbone with the action. His skin hurt and itched and he was too hot and his insides felt like they were being liquified via fire, but at least Spock was there with him.

He heaved a sigh and let go.

≡

He woke up and there were hands on him, big ones clutching at his back and his waist. And just— No. Not that. Never— He shoved at the body too close to his, kicked out, aiming for important bits. He had to get those hands to let go of him. There was no way he was letting this happen again. He wouldn’t be made to feel helpless, violated again. Needles and experiments and hands and mind games, too weak and slow to fight against any of it. Too _desperate_ to save everyone and he couldn’t even save himself.

“Ashayam,” a familiar, deep voice uttered.

Just the word was enough to give pause as an unnamed, warm feeling washed over him.

He opened his eyes fully and found the face of the person.

Spock.

Spock was lying in bed next to him, holding him. Gentle arms reeled his unresisting body closer, and Jim. . .collapsed against him. His heart was still racing, beating hard enough against his ribs to make him queasy. And distantly he knew he was breathing too hard, panting heavily into the warm, safe space of Spock’s chest.

The wrongness he had felt upon waking hadn’t disappeared but breathing in Spock’s familiar, spiced scent had it fading.

He clung to consciousness but the weight of his adrenal dump was already pulling his fatigued mind under.

■

“Spock,” Bones barked as he barged into Jim’s patient room. The Vulcan didn’t even bother glancing his way from where he was nestled protectively around Jim on the biobed. Jim was happily unconscious on his side and Spock was spooned tightly against his back, propped up slightly above their captain as he used his arm as a pillow.

With his face pressed into Jim’s hair already, he curled closer, nuzzling into his hiding spot more firmly. He peeked out at Bones with one dark eye.

“Growl at one of my nurses one more goddamn time and I’m kicking you out permanently! As it is already, I’m kicking you out for the next hour. You need to get your head back on straight. Go to your quarters, wash up, change, and, when the time’s up, come back. Not a minute less. And so fucking help me if you don’t hop your green-blooded ass down outta that biobed here in the next minute I will have security on you so fast your pointy-eared little head will spin till it pops right off.”

The low rumbling coming from Spock increased in volume as Bones stomped over to the biobed. Spock’s angry gaze never left him.

“It’s been four days, goddammit! I’m kicking you out for an hour. You’ll be fine!”

Spock glared at him a beat longer before sliding gracefully backwards off the bed, still glaring and still rumbling, but quieter. Bones glared back at him until he slunk out of the room like an angry cat forced to move from his favorite sunning-spot.

Bones sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. In the biobed, Jim whimpered and his leg twitched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, poor Jim. He's so out of it and confused and having flashbacks.
> 
> A few words.  
> 1] I realized that no one even questioned me using the term ALON about two chapters ago. Do y'all know what that is? Because I had no idea it was a thing until I got sidetracked while googling. (Then I couldn't resist using it.)  
> 2] Every single one you needs to go on YouTube and watch like all of BrTutty's videos. They're Spirky goodness. It's feels out the wazoo and so much hotness.  
> 3] Why does The Weekend say "Wraith of Khan" in Starboy? Is it wordplay on the meaning of wraith?  
> 4] A shoutout to KittenWolf29 (if you're still reading this, HEY!) for expressing how icked xe was without being an ass about it! I loved your review. I'm so glad you're enjoying the realism and fluff.  
> 5] I forgot, but I know there's something else I wanted to add....


	15. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock struggles with emotions, has a heart-to-heart (kinda) with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAH PALS! I am the sick. It is not pleasant. Also, I am stressed. It just makes it worse. (It's just a head cold this time around, I think. lol) Anyway. Here is another chapter! Thank you to all the lovelies posting comments and talking with me about stuff! It's so much fun discussing these things! I have made new fraaaands!  
>  **Edit:** This chapter...ugh. I reworked it three times and I still feel like it's not what I want. Usually, after I post I'm just like "be free my weird ideas" and forget about it until I get email notifications. But this one is just hanging out in the back of my head....  
>    Click Vulcan words to see definitions. Click "back" to return to place in story. (Results may vary.)
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

In the shower - selfishly luxuriating in the beat of lukewarm water over his already sonically cleaned body - Spock felt clarity returning to his mind.

He was no longer growling, but deep in his chest, he continued to feel the need to, a desire to express his displeasure at being separated from his t’hy’la. His deliriously ill t’hy’la who was left unconscious and vulnerable—

No, not vulnerable. The doctor, a [ne ki'ne](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes), was there to protect him. Heal him.

And yet.

...touch him. Alone.

Spock needed to go back to him.

No. He had to trust. It was McCoy. [Hakausu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes). _Ne ki’ne_. Spock had thought he had great respect for the man, could trust in his abilities even as he antagonized the man over them. Such was their version of camaraderie. Clearly, Spock needed to reevaluate. If he truly did not trust Jim’s oldest and closest friend - a friend who had refused to accept Jim’s death - to properly care for Jim, then could he really think of the man as _ne_ _ki’ne_?

Some deep, instinctual part of him told him it was truth. McCoy was _ne ki’ne_. But the man had sent him away.

Even now Spock could feel Jim’s subconscious fear, distress, _agony,_ while the man was deeply unconscious. It clawed at Spock’s mind. To be separated from his t’hy’la as he suffered, to feel that suffering increase and not be able to soothe it…

Spock snarled and barely checked his desire to hit the wall of the shower, fists curling tightly as he leaned on them. Undoubtedly, he would cause himself more pain than relief. He would deserve it. He had abandoned his t’hy’la when he was needed.

McCoy was being logical. As [hassu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes) _,_ McCoy was to care for the mind as well as the body. And every single being on the _Enterprise_ was his patient. It was right for him to force Spock to care for himself. He had to reassure himself of this fact.

The returning clarity of his mind was proof enough. He had allowed his emotions to overwhelm him and dictate his actions, and in turn he had _growled_ at those trying to help his t’hy’la, made it difficult for them to do what was needed. It was shameful. To be Vulcan was to have control. Logically, he needed this distance away from Jim’s immediate pain.

Logically, it was illogical to leave his t’hy’la while he was vulnerable.

Spock felt the rumble of another growl beginning in his chest, low in the vee of his ribs where his diaphragm was vibrating tightly. He was so conflicted.

He turned off the shower and stood for a long moment, watching the excess water dripping from his hair as it splashed down in the small puddles surrounding his feet. He tracked the tickling sensation of it slowly trickling down his back and sliding through the hair on his chest, droplets converging and gaining momentum. It gave the impression of fingers trailing lightly over his skin.

It was also an inane use of his time. Distracting, but not nearly distracting enough.

Why had he even been caught by the idea, the feeling of it? Vulcans were not prone to fanciful moments of romanticism. They were not drawn to novelty. Using both water and sonics had been unnecessary and illogical. Once he was clean from the sonics he should have exited the stall. Instead, he had found himself turning it to a comfortable temperature and activating the water sprayer. Water, as a precious resource on both Old and New Vulcan, was rarely felt upon one’s skin. And most Vulcans did not seem to have a preference for bathing or soaking in it. Small celebrations had been held at the beginning of Old Vulcan’s short rainy season, the only time Spock had seen Vulcans drench themselves with water. Collectively at that. Each clan would gather and strip off outer robes to set up collections for the clean liquid before standing subdued in a shared joy.

Spock had always been more drawn to water. When young, he would ride I-Chaya out into the wilds during the rains, reveling in the solitude of the landscape as all living things found places of refuge. His sehlat, ever reluctant as he no doubt wished to be hiding as well, still indulged his desires before he learned to tame them.

Thinking of his childhood brought forth an idea. Spock exited the fresher after giving himself a cursory dry under the heated fan. He touched the intercom button on his personal viewscreen as he passed it for his closet.

“Audio only, Spock to bridge,” he instructed and pulled on another pair of lounge pants, noticing his first pair had been laundered and returned by his yeoman.

“Bridge, Lieutenant Uhura speaking. What can I do for you, Commander?” Uhura’s voice was clear and happily lilting through the intercom.

“Nyota,” Spock said and slid a loose Vulcan tunic on, fastening the side only at the waist and leaving the shoulder undone, a triangle of fabric falling across his chest. He would be removing it soon; it was illogical to do more than necessary to keep it on his person.

“Spock,” Nyota said, acknowledging the informal nature of his call. “How’s the captain doing?”

Spock paused at the edge of his dresser where he had been reaching for the small, ornate box where he kept his personal grooming items.

“He is,” he started to say but his words were nearly unintelligible. He cleared his throat quietly. “Jim is doing better. He sleeps mostly. It is an improvement from seizures and flashbacks, other small setbacks. Doctor McCoy believes he will be fully coherent and awake soon.”

“That’s great, Spock,” Nyota said softly, relieved. “How have you been holding up?”

“I am. . .” Spock plucked his comb from the box, staring at it. “I am compromised. Which brings me to the nature of this communication. Is there an available frequency that could send a video-hail to my father on New Vulcan?” he asked, combing his hair into a more orderly fashion.

A pause.

“Yes, there is. Would you like me to send one?” Nyota asked and Spock knew she had already programmed it in and had her finger hovering over the call button.

“Yes, please, Nyota. And transfer it to my quarters, thank you,” Spock instructed. A second later his viewscreen lit up with the Starfleet logo slowly rotating against a black background.

“Is that all, Spock?”

“Yes, Nyota.”

“Alright. Let me know if there’s anything else you need, hun. We’re all missing our dynamic duo up here. Uhura out.”

Spock took a seat in his desk chair at the terminal on the wall and waited for his father to answer. It did not take long.

When the black screen and small silver symbol were suddenly faded away to be replaced by his father’s visage in his study, Spock was mildly startled. His father was shirtless and wearing only a pair of tan sleep pants. His usually immaculate hair was in disarray.

“Spock,” he said, in noticeable shock as he performed a similar scan of Spock. It was not unusual for family to see one another on more casual terms, but Spock and his father had fallen away from the habit when Spock was still an adolescent.

“[Sa-mekh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes),” Spock responded with automatically. “It is night in Uzh Shi'Kahr?”

“Yes. I was quite worried when the hail from the _Enterprise_ woke me. As you have always calculated the time difference and only spoken with me during the day, I concluded there must be a more pressing issue.”

“I am sorry, sa-mekh,” Spock apologized, chastened in a way only his father could make him feel. “There is not a pressing issue at this time. Or, there is, but it is not mine. It affects me deeply, this issue, but I am well. There was no need for me to call you. I should have checked the time but I did not think to. I will end th-”

“Spock,” his father interrupted, frowning at him. “You are clearly distressed. Plainly state what is amiss.”

Spock faltered, head tilting in confusion. He briefly floundered for a response and dropped his gaze shamefully. He was not quite sure why he had desired to call his father, only that he had and needed it in some way. He had not had a plan for their conversation.

“Sa-mekh,” Spock began, still indecisive about what he should say. “I am… unsure what to tell you.”

“Only the truth, [sa-fu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes),” his father said and his tone held a note of affection Spock had only realized was there once he was an adult and they had lost everything except each other. Spock looked up and found his father watching him with a patience Spock had only seen parents and medical professionals utilize. It was a calm, expectant silence projected through their call.

“I … am emotionally compromised,” Spock admitted and his father raised an eyebrow.

“As you are not in uniform, I am to assume you have already been removed from duty,” his father said plainly. “What has compromised you, Spock?”

“My— Jim Kirk,” Spock said and he watched his father’s expression darken.

“Your captain?” he asked and Spock tilted his chin down once to confirm. His father’s eyes appeared to flash in the light of his study, giving him a dangerous edge to his features.

Spock realized what he had accidentally implied. His father was surely remembering the last time Spock admitted to being emotionally compromised by Jim.

“Sa-mekh,” Spock said quietly under his father’s intent attention. “It is not as before. He— He is my t’hy’la. [Telsu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes).”

His father visibly startled, eyes widening and head jerking back minutely.

“You are sure?”

Spock nodded once.

“How. . .did you discover this? The bond is an ancient one rarely witnessed even between the most compatible of Vulcans.”

“I have known for some time,” Spock admitted, glancing over his father’s shoulder in shame. He did not wish to recount details of the events leading to the discovery to his father.

“Have you completed the bond?” his father demanded sharply and Spock resisted the urge to flinch.

“I have not. I have not even told Jim.”

“Why not? If he is truly t’hy’la he has the right to know. And you will not be able to keep it from him for long. You deserve to have a fully realized bond, sa-fu.”

“Until recently, I was unsure of my own desires. I was also operating under the misapprehension that Jim would be uninterested in becoming my bondmate. I believed the t’hy’la bond we shared would stay fulfilled in the realm of friendship.”

“Spock, [sa-fu ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes)[t’nash-veh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes), you know as well as any that the t’hy’la bond is sacred [shan’hal’lak](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes).”

“Sa-mekh, he is Terran. Their relationships are ill-defined, and even when defined it is with implied nuance. You know as well as I that they can have any mixture of platonic, sexual, and romantic attachments. With the information gathered and presented on Jim, I had concluded that he does not form romantic connections of any kind, despite his sexual nature and deep, platonic affection for the people he considers himself close to.”

“And now, sa-fu? What new information are you presented with that alters these theories about Jim Kirk’s character?”

Spock felt a wrenching in his gut, suspiciously close to his heart, and he burned with guilt. His information source was Jim himself, but the instances of revelation were questionable at best, morally reprehensible and punishable at worst. Spock had gleaned the information straight from Jim’s own mind, and Jim was not in control of his faculties when he had revealed his desires verbally.

If he told his father, after already admitting to his emotionality, what would his father think of him? Their relationship had only very recently improved to the point where they could speak freely around one another. And if somehow his father found out from a source other than his son, what were the consequences?

Spock closed his eyes and reached for the bond for comfort.

His breath caught. He had unintentionally shielded himself from Jim to speak with his father. Suddenly terrified that something had happened without his knowing about it, he dissolved the wall between his consciousness and where the bond lay. Tendrils of panic and the hurt Jim was experiencing pierced his mind like icy needles. It closed up his airways and he gasped loudly. Almost distantly he heard his father call his name and Spock desperately shook his head.

“Sa-mekh,” he choked out, unsure and sorrowful and angry once again. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears he felt prickling beneath his secondary eyelids.

“Spock, tell me _what is distressing you_ ,” his father commanded and Spock could hear a worry he would have never believed him capable of until their loss of Amanda, [ko-mekh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes).

“He is sick,” Spock choked out, forcing himself to open his eyes. He left the thin nictitating membrane closed to keep his tears from spilling over. “At first. . .it was just a Terran virus that caused vomiting, something I believe mother had once or twice. But then he— there was blood in his vomit and Doctor McCoy informed me he _expected_ it to happen, that Jim had a weakened immune system and scarring in his stomach. How? I do not understand. He is still so young!

“Then Jim’s condition became worse. He. . .His breathing… There was something very wrong and the hypospray McCoy gave me did not help. I had to carry him down to medbay while believing he might die. I was so enraged, so terrified, that I desired to inflict harm upon Doctor McCoy’s person. What is wrong with me, sa-mehk? It is just sickness! There is not much that cannot be cured. And yet I cannot control myself, I cannot force myself to not feel because it is Jim!

“It has been five days he has been ill! And McCoy assures me he will recover, but he is in so much pain. Physical. Mental. There is something wrong deep into his katra. My t’hy’la suffers and I can do nothing! And I am left to feel all of it, cutting deep into my control and reducing me to… These emotions. They are on a level I cannot comprehend! To the point I doubt my conviction to the teachings of Surak. I doubt myself as a Vulcan. Jim has always tested my will over myself, and now my bond with him, though shallowly completed, has decimated it. I do not see how it is wise to pursue something that advances my ruin!

“...And yet… Yet, I could not fathom parting from him. Sa-mekh, I am ... _conflicted_. _Scared._ ”

Spock whispered the last word, deflated, exhausted and waiting for his father’s judgment. Not since he was small, before he began learning the teachings of Surak, has he had such a verbal expulsion of emotion.

It was met with only quiet - unnerving - regard. His father stared at him for so long Spock was forced to look away, unable to handle his examination. Then his father sagged in his seat and appeared just as exhausted and guilty as Spock felt. The nictitating membrane holding his tears back flicked away into place under his primary eyelids. Twin tears slid down his burning cheeks.

“Sa-fu t'nash-veh, I have failed you,” his father stated softly and Spock’s gaze shot back to him. Their eyes met, one pair sad and the other confused. “Your mother devoted herself to raising you, even when faced with a culture that rejected her while expecting her to educate you within it. And I was distant, off-world too often to foster the relationship necessary between a Vulcan father and his son. I now believe much of your confusion and adversity in childhood to be my fault. There are many things I must make up for. [Ni’droi’ik nar-tor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/22676447#chapter_15_endnotes).”

“Sa-mekh?” Spock whispered, too shocked and dazed by his father’s words for anything else.

“Spock,” his father addressed him, voice abruptly changing to his usual stern tone. It was one that Spock associated with moments of wisdom. “Do you know why the t’hy’la bond is important in Vulcan culture?”

“It is an ancient and rare bond,” Spock answered automatically. Everyone knew of t’hy’la. “Even in the time before Surak, a t’hy’la bond was present in only a thousandth percent of the population of Vulcan. In the modern era, it occurs roughly in a billionth percent of a single generation of Vulcans. It is a spontaneous bond that occurs between only perfectly compatible minds and has the equivalency of a betrothal bond. It can be strengthened to the level of a completed marriage bond.”

“Spock, I have truly been remiss in your education if this the extent of your knowledge on t’hy’la.”

Spock did not know how to respond. He was still reeling from their collective confessions. There was too much. But his father’s steady tone was helping him find stability.

“Vulcans have always been touch-telepaths, but we did not always meld. It was a skill our warrior ancestors never took the time to develop fully until Surak. We did not bond as we do currently. T’hy’la was sacred even then because it was a true bond, mind to mind, in a way our ancestors could not comprehend. The presence of it had the ability to stop warriors mid-battle, to create peace between clans, to turn enemies into family.

“Often, a bond was not realized until blood was shed. If they were ne ki'ne, then it was the act of putting oneself in harm’s way for the other that brought the bond to realization. If they were enemies, it was said that the drawing of blood from exchanged blows brought t’hy’lara to their knees in the midst of raging battle. It is still unclear why. Historians have speculated since historians have existed. We may never know. The ancient texts were never explicit about the specifics.

“But what _is_ explicitly stated in many ancient texts is that the traditional marriage bonds we cultivate in our society now were modeled after t’hy’lara.”

Spock could not prevent the shock that he felt forming on his face.

“Touch strengthened the bond, but what has been concluded by scholars from the oldest of texts is that it wasn’t enough for t’hy’lara. Their minds, their katra, yearned to connect, for a certain level of completion. Many of these pairs were the first to develop the ability to meld. These initial melds were shallow, unguided, debilitating for hours afterward. Our traditions of marriage rituals stem from this.

“It was a coveted state, to be t’hy’la, as they were often awarded privileges others could not attain. There is a poem of a warrior who found his t’hy’la in a slave and fought to have him by his side, conquering those that would part them and going so far as to reject his clan and join another that allowed them to be as one. Another story is of a married female with a son in her own clan, sent to spy on another clan, only to find that their leader was her t’hy’la. She split with the father of her child, carried the child of her t’hy’la, and combined their clans into one. Her husband was furious and contested their claim of t’hy’la, but when provided with proof, conceded. Through the culmination of these stories, t’hy’lara were awarded certain concessions within the many clans.

“These very sentiments and ideals were _built_ into the foundation of t’hy’la. One cannot think of t’hy’la without the implications of such attached. T’hy’la is considered a true mate, everything else is only imitation. After Surak, as it became rarer with betrothals, it became even more coveted to be t’hy’lara. Eventually, as it nearly faded completely from existence and Vulcans began to achieve deeper levels of melds, it came to be considered sacred. For the average Vulcan, one can only emulate a t’hy’la bond through lifetime cultivation with another.

“According to the few recorded accounts of these bonds, t’hy’lara can meld so deeply that it is as if they are one whole, instead of two, and still not lose themselves within. It is this that has given birth to the fanciful theory that t’hy’lara are one katra split into two bodies. In truth, there is still very much that is unknown about t’hy’la as our culture supports willing, consensual submission to study and bondmates who share a t’hy’la bond are radically protective of their bond. An evolutionary quirk of self-preservation, as severing of a t’hy’la bond can lead to death and madness.

“But also, I suppose, born of a love fundamentally built into their katra. In the modern age, causing pain to one’s bondmate is a high crime. Many telsu describe it as cutting away at oneself, unintentional it may be. For t’hy’la it would be pure self-destruction, I imagine. As you can deduce, it then becomes very difficult to gather information on t’hy’lara. Many theorize that if studied, it is possible we might find that beyond spontaneity, t’hy’la do not differ that greatly from modern telsu. Or possibly that t’hy’la is not as uncommon as we had previously believed.”

Spock’s father paused in his short lesson at this point and carefully examined Spock. Spock, unsure how he should be processing this influx of information carrying with it emotional responses he dare not show in front of his father, watched his father watching him. He felt an intense desire to shut down the call and meditate, to be with his emotions and thoughts in solitude until he could control them again. How was he to accept this? Was he expected to just assimilate the new information and suddenly feel whole as a Vulcan? What did this mean for his memories and experiences of his childhood? What did this mean for his bond with Jim?

“Spock, sa-fu t’nash-veh, what you are feeling is not a failing of your human heritage but a misunderstanding of your Vulcan one,” his father said, the lines of his face softening until he was as Spock remembered before the fights in school, the bullies, the need to defend his mother at every turn because she was better than all of them and they would never give her a chance. Give him a chance.

And with everything going on with Jim, the stress and pain of the last few years, his estrangement with his father before that, and the permanent sense of being lost or misplaced and torn apart - rejected— That sense of self that he had accepted as part of him long ago…

Spock shuddered on an exhale and felt more tears leaking from his eyes. He flushed in shame, too confusedangry _relieved_ to continue, and moved to disconnect the call, rudely, and without saying farewell.

“Wait, Spock,” his father ordered and Spock paused, finger millimeters from the surface of his viewscreen. “There is no shame in what you are feeling for your captain. I understand your distress and advise you to meditate. _Do not_ reject your t’hy’la. Though it is poorly understood at present, your bond with him is a gift. Your control will continue to degrade until you settle the bond. You _must_ meld with him. Only then will you find calm and true control, and possibly even comfort. You need him, Spock. And he needs you, whether he knows it or not. Be assured that you have my blessing and never be fearful of coming to me with your concerns.”

Spock faltered, frowning with his tear ducts still leaking. He had never heard his father speak so freely, especially of emotions. The only time his father had even admitted to having them was when Spock’s mother was lost. Was he trying to fill in where Spock lacked without his mother’s presence?

“Meditate, sa-fu t'nash-veh. Settle yourself. We will speak more at an appropriate time. Live long and prosper,” his father ordered, giving the ta’al. Spock returned it even as he could not give sound to the response.

He ended the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan (for those who aren't sure):  
>  *** ni ki'ne** ~ loosely, it means shield-brother; a trusted friend and skilled warrior; a person who is a warrior's most trusted in battle  
>  *** hakausu** ~ the Vulcan term for Doctor  
>  *** hassu** ~ doctor; healer; medical practitioner  
>  *** telsu** ~ one who is bonded  
>  *** sa-mekh** ~ father  
>  *** sa-fu** ~ son  
>  *** ko-mekh** ~ mother  
>  *** sa-fu t'nash-veh** ~ my son  
>  *** shan'hal'lak** ~ emotional engulfment; love at first sight  
>  *** ni'droi'ik nar-tor** ~ asking for forgiveness  
>  *** t'hy'la** ~ do I really need to explain this one? ;D
> 
> All translations taken from [Vulcan Language Dictionary](http://www.starbase-10.de/vld)
> 
> So if you're thinking Spock is just being too much, I'd like you to consider these things.  
> One, Jim.  
> Two, Jim is sick.  
> Three, Spock's been physically and mental exhausting himself trying to take care of Jim.  
> Four, they have an unfulfilled bond which has created an imbalance in Spock's mind.  
> Five, he has a tense relationship with his father, and communication between them is stressful.


	16. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for leaving you all hanging like that. I know it's been a little longer than usual since I updated. This chapter's a short one. I've just been all over the place recently and haven't been able to just sit down and write. Anyway, here you go.

_~∞~_

_The snow was waist deep, drifted in some places over his head. It was even drifted up over the knee-high lip at the bottom of the skinny hole that served as their front door. It was never allowed to do that. They couldn’t let themselves get trapped._

_Jim’s blood turned as icy as the air around him, burning against his wind-chapped cheeks._

_He scrambled through the hole, around the bend just inside, and into their cozy little home._

_Only it wasn’t so cozy. The sheets hung over the walls and draped across the entryway were half torn and torn down in most places. Their supplies were scattered everywhere - pillows leaking stuffing and cooking pots overturned everywhere. Their fire was out, only dying embers glowing red hot gave dim light to the cave. And soaked into their scrounged rugs was a dark, slick substance._

_Jim didn’t have to find more light to know what it was. He knew that smell. He would never forget that smell._

_His heart turned to lead, dropped into his stomach, and his stomach fell through. His throat was strangled shut, he gagged, saliva dribbled from his lip._

_The fear hit first with a racing-heart icy shiver._

_None of them were there! There wasn’t even a single body to mourn! What had happened? Where was his family? Why didn’t he know?_

_Then came the pain radiating outward from his chest._

_Dead. They were all dead. Gone. They had to be. With the heaviness of that sickly, sweet, metallic scent of blood so pungent. They were all dead. Even his kids. His **kids**. _

_And after, there was anger. Searing, glowing stone— heavy, fortifying, embers._

_He was going to tear apart every single person who had allowed this. Every sick fuck who took part. Every apathetic bystander. Fuck. them. all._

_Fire burned up from his gut, heating him from the inside out so he felt that if he breathed out too hard there would be flames. He could spit acid. If they wanted a monster, he would become._

_He was there, on the threshold of a stronghold. High walls and guards. It looked like a princely estate. It was_ **_disgusting_** _._

_Jim was a molotov cocktail of pain, fear, rage, and sadness. He was going to blow this place sky high with himself. He would throw everything that he was against this sinkhole of evil and pray that as he went out, he took all of them with him._

_He snuck inside and started looking for the root of the disease that plagued the planet. The governor._

_He’d be somewhere cushy. Somewhere safe. Somewhere_ **_warm._**

_While everyone else suffered._

_What gave him the right?_

_There was a voice calling his name and he turned into the closest room._

_Chained to a wall in what looked like a dungeon was a dark haired man. He was covered in every one of the wounds that had given Jim his scars while in this wretched place._

_Scars and wounds. They were like mirrored images._

_Except his eyes were a dark brown, his features alien and familiar, dark features to Jim’s light. And he bled green. It oozed from the corner of his mouth, stained all of his clothing, pooled around his feet._

_It_ hurt _to see him. It_ **_killed_ ** _Jim to see this. This man shouldn’t be suffering as Jim had. He should never have to feel that level of agony and despair. He was so good. He was so gentle. He didn’t deserve it._

_Jim had done this._

_He needed to fix it._

_But then there_ **_he_ ** _was. Holding Kevin around the neck from behind. He pressed an antique revolver to Kevin’s temple._

_“NO!” Jim screamed but it was as though through water, wavering and distorted and low._

_“All of this is your fault, Jimmy,” the man said, but it wasn’t his voice. His lips moved with the words but he was a puppet. It sounded like his stepdad._

_“You weren’t good enough to stop it. You weren’t good enough and you never will be. Eventually, they’ll all leave until you have nothing.”_

_He pulled the trigger._

_Green blood erupted from the side of Kevin’s head._

_He wasn’t Kevin anymore._

Jim awoke with a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've noticed any errors please point them out. This was a hasty edit. (Ngl, I did it while playing Skyrim.
> 
> Anyway, I'm so glad you all enjoyed the last chapter! I was really worried about how the characterization was going to be received but all of you seem to really love a supportive, trying-to-be-a-good-father Sarek and totally understand where Spock was coming from. Thank you for all of your insightful comments.


	17. Dreams and Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock sees a memory in a dream. Jim's awake and lucid (finally).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAH PALS! Oh my god. We've caught up to my writing. Kind of. The end is nigh! There's just a little more to go. Won't know for sure how many chapters until I've written a bit more on what I've already done for what comes next. I'm so excited!! Anyway, here's Jim being awake for real and Spock getting really overprotective.
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

Spock was gone from the medbay for exactly one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and fifty-three seconds. Deciding to meditate had been a beneficial course but had delayed him in returning to Jim’s side.

He could not deny the relief he felt after being sanitized and changing back into scrubs to join Jim on his biobed. He gathered his sleeping t’hy’la close and engaged the force field walls on the bed, for comfort’s sake. Jim could not be allowed to accidentally hurt himself on top of everything.

The proximity, the feel of his t’hy’la in his arms, eased something feral inside Spock, and coupled with the meditation he had allowed himself,  he felt his mental equilibrium returning. He pressed his nose to Jim’s hair, breathing in the sickly sweet scent that gathered there. It smelled of Jim and hair oils, even though it was obvious someone had been in to clean him while Spock was absent. The thought made him equal parts grateful for the care and angry at another touching what was his.

Jim snuffled in his sleep and pressed closer. Spock automatically suppressed his desire to purr, even as he recalled his father telling him it was expected and natural. It would take longer than one short meditation to reevaluate what he thought he knew.

So instead, Spock rested one hand on Jim’s face, thumb and forefinger brushing gently over two meld points, giving him an idea of what was going on in Jim’s mind as he slept.

Immediately, vague impressions of melted snow and the safety of a warm fire brushed his mind; it carried with it sensations of relief and comfort. Jim pressed his face into Spock’s chest, gripping his scrubs tightly. Spock carefully pulled some of the IV tubing onto the bed to give Jim slack for movement without tugging on the catheter needle in the back of his hand. The half-formed idea of curling up around a portable heating unit with a blanket floated about in Jim’s mind and Spock felt slight amusement at being compared to such a device.

It was fascinating how the human mind worked.

Even unconscious, Jim’s mind recognized the touch of his mirth and responded with hazy impressions of safety, warmth, love— being at the center of a pile of slumbering children. Spock’s presence must be affecting Jim’s dreams, the brush of their minds influencing where Jim’s unconscious thoughts wandered as he associated Spock with these things.

It was gratifying.

Until it wasn’t.

Jim’s mind was suddenly cold and bright, and Spock found himself hooked and dragged deep into this mess of distorted, piercing white light.

When he was able to slip away from Jim’s grasp on him, he found himself a passive observer in a memory. It must have been filled with strong emotion for Jim’s subconscious to pull Spock into a full meld after absorbing Spock’s inherent knowledge of it to do so. It was an amazing occurrence, and Spock’s mind was already pondering on how it possibly could have happened. How had Jim accomplished such a thing? What exactly had occurred to create this?

The memory he was witnessing was an interesting one. Spock was in a forest interspersed with large boulders where deep snow had created a thick blanket over all of it. Ahead of him, Jim - shorter (younger) and bundled in many layers to an unrecognizable degree - trudged down a well-worn rut in the knee-deep snow. The trees and boulders provided cover from the howling winds above and beyond this small trail of safety, where it was apparent that just beyond them the snow was drifted to chest height (Spock’s chest) in some places.

Jim hiked up the bag on his back as the path dropped down next to a crag, the steep wall acting as a lee - a benefit, considering that on the other side of the path was a long drop into a ravine cut into the mountain face through years of erosion and ice. Jim was curled inward, trudging with his head down as though he followed this path expertly every day, even as it was clearly not Jim’s hometown of Riverside.

They followed the curve of the mountain before climbing up higher again along a small set of switchbacks, back into an area of flatter land filled with smaller boulders and taller, thick trees. Their bark was rough and peeling, leaking dark, coffee-colored sap from scores and holes in the surface. The leaves were a dark green, denoting coniferous flora such as the pines and junipers from Terra. From the forest floor, Spock couldn’t say if their leaves were needle-like or scaly. The lowest branches were approximately 4.6 meters above his head. They spread out like many reaching hands, intertwining and layering over the branches from distant neighboring trees.

Spock was pulled from his musings of the environment of Jim’s memory when he was hit with sharp dread from Jim, who was standing in front of what looked to be the entrance to a cave. It was a thin sliver in the face of the mountain where their path ended. It was elevated off the snow-packed trail by approximately 27 centimeters and the less dense powder had drifted up into it. Spock watched as Jim frantically heaved himself up into the hole and slipped sideways through, abruptly disappearing from sight.

There was no need to follow as Spock was instantly next to Jim in a cavern, dimly lit by embers from what used to be a firepit. There were blankets and pillows, pots and pans, utensils and other various living necessities scattered around the cave. Jim cycled through emotions so fast it was hard for Spock to keep up and suddenly he found they were standing outside a tall concrete wall with barbed wire spun around the top.

It was possible this wasn’t a memory, though the level of clarity in the surroundings gave credence to the possibility. Spock had observed that even in humans, memories presented in a meld did not jump from place to place or from one time to the next, unless there was damage to the brain that caused amnesia or loss of time. Memories flowed, ended, and picked up with the next one.

Spock considered the likelihood that Jim was lucid dreaming. Or maybe he was dreaming of a memory and his subconscious mind was piecing the events together like a holovid in an editing program.

They were abruptly in a room, Jim still wearing his winter protection but now without any covering on or around his head. His young face was gaunt and his skin appeared sallow, his lank blond hair overlong and scraggly. But his eyes were electric, feral and angry.

Until he caught sight of the man hanging on the wall in the room. Horror and despair overtook his facial expression and Spock looked at the man.

A nauseating shock hit him in the chest, catching his breath. Hanging from the wall, limp and absolutely covered in blood, the marks of torture everywhere, was himself. Guilt roiled in the air, choking Spock. He looked to Jim to see him with anguished eyes and his mouth open in a scream, silent. Silent as the dream had been and Spock had not noticed.

Then, abruptly, Jim’s voice came through.

High, young, wavering, and distorted, he shrieked, “No!”

“All of this is your fault, Jimmy,” a deeper male voice stated from behind Spock and he turned to see a blank-eyed child held at ...gunpoint. An antique Terran gun was pressed to the child’s head by a man and he continued speaking as Spock watched the child’s visage waver and transform into himself.

Then there was a very loud crack and Spock watched his own head blown open by the weapon.

Jim screamed.

Spock was shoved from Jim’s mind and found himself opening his eyes to Jim in the physical plane, awake and thrashing against him. He flung himself from Spock’s embrace and slammed his back into the biobed’s forcefield. He was choking and coughing, breathing too heavily and erratically. The biomonitors were screeching and Spock was trying to hold Jim still, bring him back in close, keep him safe, just as the door slid open and two nurses bustled in.

They shot toward Jim without breaking stride.

Jim saw them and defensively kicked out at the closest one, catching the woman in the hip with his heel and sending her stumbling back, tripping, down to the floor. The other nurse had a hypospray in one hand and was trying to grab Jim’s closest flailing arm to administer it. Spock assumed it was a sedative.

He panicked.

What if Jim was allergic? What if this nurse had not consulted Jim’s allergy list? What if he synthesized something wrong? Spock couldn’t allow it.

He smacked the nurse’s hand away from where it was trying to hold onto Jim’s forearm. The intravenous catheter was partially dislodged and Jim yelped. Spock gathered him close, back against his chest, and snarled at the nurse.

Jim froze in his arms, stiff and barely breathing.

This was how McCoy entered to find the room. He took one glance at the situation and held out his hand for the hypospray in the nurse’s hand.

He stepped up to McCoy and handed it over. McCoy read the cartridge contents and nodded once at the nurse.

“We’ll talk after,” he told the nurses as the kicked one pulled herself back to her feet with the help of the other. “For now, take five.”

They left and McCoy didn’t speak or move until the door slid shut behind them, privacy screening engaged with a command from the doctor.

Spock’s snarl had turned into a growl and then died to a low rumble of a noise. At a look from McCoy, he let it die, turning his face into Jim’s neck to purr soothingly. He felt Jim’s hands tentatively grab the arm he had around his t’hy’la’s chest.

“Bones?” Jim asked, voice raspy and quiet, very unsure. “What just happened?”

“It seems you had a nightmare that you woke quite violently from and nearly gave everyone involved heart problems,” McCoy said and ambled up to the biobed.

Jim inhaled deeply and held it. His back pressed tight up against Spock’s chest and Spock nuzzled Jim’s nape appreciatively, adjusting his hold on Jim to keep him that close as he exhaled.

“Why is Spock in my biobed with me?” Jim asked next, wavering. “Shouldn’t he be on the bridge?”

“Jimbo, you’ve got senior officers for a reason. Scotty, Uhura, and Sulu have been doing just fine up there without you two. There hasn’t been anything they couldn’t handle,” McCoy said, and Spock distantly felt his hand on Jim’s knee through Jim. He gave a warning growl. McCoy didn’t remove his hand.

“That still doesn’t explain why I currently have Spock attached to my back and _growling_ right now,” Jim said. His heart beat arrhythmically and Spock dropped the warning, going back to soothing his mate.

“Well-” McCoy started but then paused and asked, “How coherent are you right now?”

“I don’t know, Bones? What’s the scale? I know I’m not firing on all cylinders. Does that explain anything?”

Jim sounded distressed, felt exhausted. Spock whimpered and rubbed his palms up and down Jim’s sides, trying to pet him into a calmer state.

“You seem aware enough if you’re being snarky,” Bones said and pulled Jim’s hand away from where it had been hovering near where Spock had been holding him. “Here, let me fix that.”

Jim hissed in pain and Spock increased the volume of his purring, knowing that Doctor McCoy was adjusting the catheter there.

“Well, kid, when you took a turn for the worse, it became nigh impossible to separate him from you so we just decided to let him stay. Like a stray.”

“Bones,” Jim said, warningly. Spock approved.

“What? I’m just glad the fruit-loop is finally acting like he can feel something other than a pretentious need to be a pain in my ass, even if it’s been inconvenient as all hell with him latched onto you.”

“Bones!”

Spock nuzzled more insistently against Jim’s nape.

There was a beat of silence.

“Well, I can’t deny he’s been good for you,” McCoy said as Spock heard him pull the abandoned chair from the wall to sit in. “First as nursemaid and now as whatever this is. I’ve never seen you so. . .calmly accepting of treatment. It took me for-fuckin’-ever to get you to trust me, and _you_ attached _yourself_ to me like a puppy that first semester. To be fair, though... You’ve been pretty delirious these last five days.”

“Shit, I’ve been here that long? How the hell did that happen?”

“Technically, you’ve only been here four days. But you were sick—”

“I remember that… Mostly.”

“—then you got worse. Infection everywhere. You had sepsis, Jim. From gastrointestinal upset. Nothing can ever be easy around you, can it?”

“Hey, fuck you too.” Jim laughed, strained and airy, but it made Spock’s breath catch. He sagged against Jim’s back, clutching at him as a huge amount of worry he had been unaware of drained from him. Jim was doing better. He was awake. He was aware. He was laughing. He would be okay.

“Seems like you’ve made your hobgoblin there very happy,” McCoy said and Jim huffed. Spock felt his fond exasperation.

“I’m glad you’re doing better, in all seriousness. It’s been rough, Jim. I’m sure everyone will be relieved to know you’re on the up and up. I’m going to keep you until tomorrow, though, just to make sure. Besides the nightmare which sent everyone into a panic, you’ve been showing signs that you’re improving in leaps and bounds. Brain activity has been pretty low, more into the average level for typical sleep patterns. Which means you’ve had a decrease in flashbacks and nightmares this go-around. And your white blood cell count is up by around thirty percent from what we expected.”

“Khan’s blood,” Jim murmured. Spock couldn’t contain his low snarl but he could muffle it between Jim’s shoulder blades.

“I’m not so sure about that. We can’t rule it out, but I think it might be a bit more of Spock’s influence. I’m not sure how, but in some way I think his presence has helped stabilize. . .well, everything. I don’t know a whole helluva lot about Vulcan biology. Just enough to treat one for basic medical needs and in the event of an emergency. You’ll have to discuss this all with him when he’s more. . .his logical self. If you want any theories, that is.”

“Yeah, about that…” Jim whispered and wiggled in Spock’s grasp. “How exactly do I go about doing that? I’m pretty sure I need my first officer back.”

“Beats me,” McCoy said and Spock peeked over Jim’s shoulder to see him shrug and glance at Spock. “You’ll have to figure it out with him. He’s been like this - and worse - since you were brought down here.”

“Thanks, Bones, that’s really helpful,” Jim said sarcastically and McCoy stood up with a small smile.

“Anyway, I’m going to send a few nurses in to take some samples and remove your catheter. The one in your dick. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with the hookup in your arm. Which, by the way, I’m proud of you for not messing with, excepting a few less lucid accidents. Is there anything you need?”

“Yeah, actually,” Jim said and shifted. “I’m feeling kind of. . .hungry. . .?”

“Glad you’re getting your appetite back. I’ll send something in for you, Jimbo. Just promise me you won’t make yourself sick on it. I don’t want a repeat of the last week.”

“I’ll be careful. I want out of here as quick as possible.”

“I know you do, kid. Alright then, just one last thing,” McCoy said, nearing the door. “Keep your little Vulcan octopus under control while the nurses are here.”

Spock straightened up, offended that the doctor would even say such a thing. He glared at McCoy as he left the room.

Spock didn’t need to be _‘kept under control.’_ He was Vulcan.

But, he _was_ Vulcan.

So he would need to control his emotions slightly better for the sake of Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my lovelie commenters for your continued input and encouragement. I love hearing your thoughts! Really. I do. It's just great. Even if you're just dropping one to call me a sadistic bastard or to give me advice on how to deal with sleep paralysis and dissociation. You're all gr9.
> 
> For all of you who've been waiting for Jim to get better! Here's that! He's not 100% but he's not going to be having any complications after this.


	18. Technically a Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets to go back to his quarters. He and Spock are both feeling pretty raw. They have a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, oopsie, this ended up being a _LOT_ longer than intended. I was originally going to split it up but didn't like how it flowed. So I hope no one _minds_ a bit of extra length here. Also, sorry for the extended wait periods. Since I caught up to myself, I have to write each chapter on top of editing before I post, and I'm also juggling other real life problemos.
> 
> Also y'all really seemed to really like the idea of Vulcan-Octopus Spock. And overprotective/possessive Spock. But I mean, that's why we're all here, right? That and the Kirk whump. Y'all should find this a pretty delicious chapter. I leave you to your consumption.

_~∞~_

“You really don’t need to be doing this, you know?” Jim said staring up at Spock as they headed down the corridors of the Enterprise toward his quarters. “I mean, you really, really probably should most definitely not be doing this. For a number of reasons. The main one being that my legs work just fine.”

Bones snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim asked, indignantly glaring around Spock’s shoulder.

“Your body’s still exhausted, Jimbo,” Bones drawled as he strolled along slightly behind and to the side of Spock. “You nearly collapsed tryna take a piss yesterday.”

“That was yesterday. I’m fine. I totally could have walked back to my quarters just fine. Seriously, what will the crew think seeing this shit? It’s unbecoming. Embarrassing.”

“Then close your eyes and pretend to sleep. Because I’m pretty sure this was your only option.”

“Says who? Not you, that’s for sure. You could have suggested a chair—”

“You hate medchairs.”

“—And you also seemed uncharacteristically silent about my decision to go back to my quarters.”

“I knew you had already made up your mind. It’s always the same. And Spock’s made up his mind. Like this, I’m pretty sure you don’t unmake it. If this is what he wants, then this is what’s best. Besides, I got you to stay in medbay for a whole day after waking up thanks to him.”

“You’re just happy that I’m not sprinting out of sickbay as quick as I possibly can.”

“You’re horrible at caring for yourself, Jim. With Spock’s brain rewound back to the cave days, I can at least go about the rest of my day knowing you’ll be forced to rest and recover properly.”

“And it was _totally_ necessary to be _carried_ from medical to my room.” Jim tried to put as much implied disdain and annoyance into his sarcasm as he could.

They rounded a corner right into a group of engineers chatting with a few people in science blues. They all glanced at the three individually, all doing double-takes and forgetting about their conversations at the sight of their ship’s XO striding past with their captain in a bridal carry, the CMO happily nodding to them.

“Don’t look so smug,” Jim muttered at him, crossing his arms even tighter across his chest.

“Well, you were rushed down to medbay like this, coming back from it gives everything a nice bit of symmetry, doncha think.”

“No. I don’t. This is stupid. Crazy.”

“Mmm, oh well. What’s new?” Bones gave him a pointed eyebrow-raise paired with a head-tilt as though that was all there was to say on the matter.

Their bickering died after that, leaving Jim to stew in his indignance.

Seriously, this was fucking dumb. He didn’t need to be carried anywhere, especially on his own damn ship. And _especially_ by his Vulcan First Officer. Definitely not like this, like some old-world blushing bride on her wedding night. If he needed to be carried anywhere he had better be unconscious or mostly dead.

But…

It _was_ …

Kind of…

Nice.

He let his head drop, temple resting on Spock’s collarbone. The steady rocking provided by the Vulcan’s measured gait, the warmth of Spock’s body seeping into his… He found that didn’t have to pretend to be sleeping. His eyes fluttered shut and he relaxed into Spock’s arms. The breaths he took became deeper, going from a soft _whoosh_ in and out of his nose to a heavier _hhhhsshhhh._ It was all he could hear and it never failed to make him even sleepier. He was a breath-and-a-half away from falling asleep, hovering precariously on the edge. In Spock’s arms. While being carried to his room. Proving Bones right.

He twitched from a little jolt to his system, heart beating faster as he forced his eyes to open and his head to lift up from Spock’s shoulder. Fuck, he couldn’t let Bones be right. Because this was embarrassing and unfitting for a captain and he was really… trying hard not to… be… Uhm. The admiralty would…

Jim drifted off again, thoughts turning to nonsensical mush, tangents dissolving into even more convoluted, frayed tangents.

The beeping of his door code being entered pulled him awake again and he blearily opened his eyes to watch from his vantage point near Spock’s shoulder as they entered his quarters.

They smelled different. His room always smelled a certain way that he associated with home and safety. Now it all smelled like… space. Devoid. It wasn’t right. It instantly made him more aware, hindbrain waking the rest of it in a cool rush.

“What happened to my quarters?” He asked, voice disturbingly groggy and mouth having issues forming around the words.

“They were sanitized,” Bones provided helpfully as Spock carried him around the partition to his bed. “We can’t have anything more happen to you, Jim. I’m pretty sure Spock would explode with worry if it did. Not to mention the state the ship would be in with you out for another week. Everyone’s gettin’ pretty antsy without you around.”

“Uh, two things,” Jim said while Spock set him down and then began unfolding his favorite blanket from where it was laid over the foot of his bed. “First, and speaking of, can I have visitors? Because I’d really like to find out what’s been going on with the ship and it’d be nice to see something besides your ugly mug.”

“Please, you’ve barely seen me. If anyone’s got any right to be sick of seeing ugly, it’s me - what with Spock snarling at everything that dared touch his precious captain and you puking everywhere.”

“It wasn’t that much!”

“Just because you were only aware for some of it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Anyway, I’ll let everyone know they can head on down. I’m sure they’re all anxious to see you,” Bones said while watching with a smirk as Jim tried to fight off Spock’s attempts at bundling him up and pushing him to lie down. “But I’m limiting each visit to half an hour.”

“How the hell are you gonna enforce that, Bones? Punch cards?” Jim swatted distractedly at Spock’s arms, ignoring the way the Vulcan was pressing against his chest.

“I won’t have to.” Bones quirked an eyebrow and pointedly stared at the back of Spock’s head. Jim huffed and slouched indignantly, accidentally giving Spock the perfect opportunity to shove him down and smother him with his own blanket.

“Psh,” Jim said and rolled his eyes, struggling to sit back up. Spock gave him a look that definitely was not-a-glare. “Okay, fine. Secondly, and relevantly, how do I fix this?”

He motioned at Spock with one hand before it was snatched up by the Vulcan himself and tucked securely under the blanket with the rest of him.

“And I’m being serious. Because this can’t continue. I don’t care how funny or helpful or whatever you find it, Bones. I need my XO back.”

Bones shrugged.

“Figure it out, Jim. You know him best, better than - I think - anyone else on this ship. You ask him.”

“Ask him?! Ask him. That’s your answer? Might be kind of hard, what with him being a little bit subverbal.”

Bones sighed in exasperation.

“Jim, if anyone’s gonna get him speakin’ in the near future, it’s you. Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to medbay. Your room’s fully stocked up so if you’re hurtin’ or uncomfortable in any way, you say somethin’. I’m sure Spock’ll be _happy_ to help you out.”

He reached out for Jim’s head and gently tousled his hair, combing it back from his face once before dropping his hand. He gave Jim a very pointed look that was somewhere between an order to behave and something along the lines of “pull up your big-boy undies and deal with it.” Then he was gone with a brief nod to Spock, who returned the gesture with a slight chin raise and suspiciously watchful eyes.

Spock waited for the door to swoosh closed and turned to Jim, staring expectantly at him.

Jim was entirely unsure about what that meant.

“Do you need something, Spock?” Jim asked, trying not to be sarcastic. It was hard. This was… Awkward. Annoying. Disturbing. Vaguely, kinda nice. But mostly uncomfortable. He’d feel so much better when Spock was back to being himself.

Spock seemed to take his words as some sort of invitation.

The next thing Jim knew, he was being mauled, manhandled. Somehow, Spock had tackled him like a clingy, domly octopus and Jim found himself caught between a rock and a hard place - the rock being the bulkhead behind him, and the hard place being Spock himself, wrapped around Jim’s front.

“Spock?” Jim mumbled into Spock’s sternum, where his face was practically smushed. “What are you trying to do here?”

“Sleep,” Spock rasped quietly and, no lie, it would have been pretty hot if not for the freaky circumstances.

“I can’t sleep like this,” Jim stated only to feel a deep vibration start up under his face in response. Spock was purring again. Like that would help. “Besides, I feel like all I’ve been doing is sleeping since I really woke up yesterday. And I know I wasn’t all that lucid or aware the last few days before that. Still very fuzzy on the details of what I can recall.”

Jim wiggled, tried to squirm some distance between them, fought against his blanket that had somehow become a straightjacket in the process. Spock’s arms became tight around him, too tight… Shit.

Then they released, relaxed. And Jim’s wiggling. . .somehow became him trying to get comfortable against Spock. It was like he accidentally shimmied right into the most comfortable spot ever. He ended up with one arm draped over the dip of Spock’s waist, his other one curled between them, and his temple resting comfortably in the cradle of Spock’s shoulder. The blanket was still a barrier between them, providing cushioning and a weird cradling effect instead of an otherwise oddly trapped sensation.

This… Had not been Jim’s intention upon returning to his quarters.

But he’d go with it. For now. A short nap seemed pleasant, actually. And with Spock all warm and rumbly, woodsy and sweet surrounding him... God, he felt safe and warm and perfect. It was way too pretend, too easy to fade away, fall into a heavy doze, peripherally aware of each slow breath, the heaviness of his limbs, the steady rhythm of Spock’s purring between them. His mind drifted, following every half-thought to another until he was floating in a dark place lit gently by fuzzy ideas and memories.

He jerked awake, sighed - confused. It must have been Spock in the bathroom that woke him. Wait. No. That was the sound of his replicator. Spock was in his quarters? The mattress next to him dipped with someone’s full body weight and Jim blearily opened his eyes.

Spock was sitting on the edge. He was changed out of his scrubs and wearing his own loose pants and a sleeveless Vulcan tunic.

Oh. Yeah.

Jim levered himself up into a sitting position, scooting back slightly to keep space between him and Spock. Jim was still in his own patient scrubs, which he suddenly very much wanted out of along with a real shower. He smelled of hospital.

“Mm ‘ow long was I out?” He mumbled with a rub to his eyes and a glance at the chronometer. He dropped his hand in shock. It was almost lunch time! He’d slept _a lot_ longer than he’d intended. It was supposed to be a short nap, not three hours. But... He actually felt rested, way more rested than when he first woke up that morning to be released - after a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in a week.

That was about par for him, though. He never could sleep very well in unfamiliar places, but he still slept the worst in hospitals, no matter how much of it he did.

His stomach grumbled, and when he looked back over at Spock to ask if he’d like to get something to eat there was a slice of an apple held delicately between Spock’s first two fingers and thumb, hovering at just about chin-level.

“Spock, I’m not going to let you finger feed me,” Jim stated blandly and glanced at his bedside table where he found a whole apple in slices, a glass of water, and a bowl of some sort of lumpy (and probably overwhelmingly healthy) porridge.

He leaned over, reaching for one of the apple slices, when his wrist was caught in a vice, lightening quick. Jim scowled at Spock and tugged at his arm. Spock was unrelenting, staring him down with glittering, hard eyes. Jim straightened up and twisted his wrist around to try and break Spock’s hold.

“I’m serious, Spock,” he hissed. “I can feed myself. In fact, I can pretty much do everything myself again. I thank you for taking care of me when I was sick, but I’m better now. You’re not needed.”

Spock’s response was to scoot closer, face dropping into something devastatingly sad, the tilt of his eyes and his mouth way too similar to the expression he had worn after materializing on the transporter pad without his mother back during the Narada Attack. Jim’s stomach swooped guiltily.

“Spock,” he said plaintively, quietly. “What am I gonna do with you? I need my First back; I need my friend.”

There was a slight tilt of the head, Spock’s lips parted like he might speak, and Jim’s gaze involuntarily fell to the normally austere bow of his upper lip, which somehow seemed softer. Inviting. Pleading.

The apple touched Jim’s bottom lip.

His hand came up without conscious thought and he gripped Spock’s wrist, cradled it in his palm almost. He sighed resignedly through his nose and very carefully bit through half of the slice, chewing slowly as he pulled back with averted eyes, embarrassed.

When he finished, the other half was rested against his bottom lip. Jim met Spock’s intense, syrupy, brown eyes as he opened his mouth and tried to once again daintily take the proffered food without brushing his lips against Spock’s fingers.

It happened anyway, with a zap like static electricity at the point of contact. Jim jerked back, chewing furiously and swallowing to clear his mouth.

“Spock,” he breathed, feeling like he was caught up in some sort of spell. “What is this? What’s going on? What are you doing?”

Jim found his space suddenly invaded, Spock’s arm looped around his waist and his free hand instinctively falling warningly to Spock’s chest, his occupied hand still holding Spock’s wrist. Their foreheads pressed together and Jim’s eyes fell closed with a hitch in his breath. His lips tingled, a lingering effect of the brush against them, and he hardly dared to breathe. A million questions swam through his head, none of them coalescing into a proper thought.

Then two of Spock’s fingers pressed very deliberately against his lips, and Jim stopped breathing as a cool rush of electricity fizzled through him.

“Ashayam,” Spock husked, warm breath fanning over the bottom of Jim’s face.

“Spock,” Jim said and his voice broke over the single syllable, lips caressing Spock’s fingers. He swallowed thickly, unsure. “How do I help you? How can I fix this? What do you need?”

Those fingers slid to the corner of his mouth, spread across his face, settled. Jim trembled, remembering the last time similar fingers touched his face in similar fashion. Apprehension stuttered his mind to a halt. It was so. . .much. Too much then. It was tearing, shoving, pressurepainsadness. It had been a singularly staggering experience.

What would it be this time?

“Your thoughts,” Spock answered to Jim’s questions, voice still low and gravely like he had been mute for months instead of days. Jim could hear traces of Elder Spock, understood maybe how his Spock’s smooth speech might have become that husky murmur.

Jim’s hand slipped from Spock’s wrist to rest in the crook of his elbow and he sagged forward into Spock’s hold. He trusted Spock, like he had never thought he could trust anyone. He trusted this, even in the echoes of terror from the first and last time he had experienced it. If it helped Spock come back to him, he’d do it.

“Have them,” he uttered.

He couldn’t have tried to control what his next response was even if his life depended on it.

Spock’s mind descended on his like a splash of ice water, sunk into him, melted him - scorched him like desert sands, evaporated everything that he was. And Jim surged into Spock. He threw himself at the Vulcan, arms around Spock’s shoulders as he gasped desperately, shaking apart at the seams. He needed an anchor, needed something to hold onto in the whirlwind of Spock’s mind.

Everything in him burned - icy - with a highly reactive _need_ he couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend. There was just terror at the enormity of it.

He was going to burst into scattered atoms, couldn’t even think to hold himself together. He was collapsing, drowning— blinded by wondrous color too bright, deafened by sounds he had no classification for (booming whispers), numb to everything except heat - sparks - against his chilled core. Was he even breathing? Did he truly exist? He was the universe, vast and infinite, contained within a small, finite space.

Disordered, chaos contained.

“Settle, my Jim, ashayam,” Spock murmured and it created an odd reverberation inside Jim’s head, like standing in two places at once and hearing the same thing from separate sources. It only confused him more.

Spock’s mind withdrew from his slightly and Jim choked, clung tighter. Absolute fear swept rationality from him. Even with the bitter, raw agony of their mingled selves, Jim preferred it to the aching, lonely void he had harbored before.

They couldn’t separate.

To be separate again would be death.

“Shh, James, ashaya, settle. My t’hy’la, settle.”

“ _I will not leave you.”_

Jim took a deep breath, felt Spock’s mind pushing against his, pushing calm into him. He exhaled, forced himself to blink, became aware again.

And with his awareness of the physical plane again, he found himself completely wrapped around Spock. In the Vulcan’s lap. Where he had apparently climbed. Humiliation oozed over his skin in the form of a full flush. He would have scrambled back, away, if not for the fact that he would then have to be _face to face_ with Spock. And he wouldn’t have been able to handle Spock staring at him right then.

Gentle amusement brushed his burning shame like a summer breeze.

“Do not be ashamed of your desires, my James. You can control them no more than a supernova can contain itself.”

A different sort of embarrassment filled him and Jim floundered for a moment, ducked his head and pressed their cheeks together, mindful of dislodging Spock’s fingers.

“Did you just compare my horniness to a natural phenomenon? A star no less. That was almost poetic.”

“Kaiidth. And I believe I compared your desires - your will, the force behind your actions - to such. You are human and there are some characteristics of humanity that will never change or be constrained. Nor would I wish them to be, I am learning.”

Spock was now speaking calmly with his usual cadence and if not for the lingering rasp in his voice, Jim would believe he was fine. Variable definitions and all. Jim, on the other hand, was not anywhere near fine. The only thing right in his world was Spock speaking almost normally again.

“How is this helping you, Spock?” he asked, marveling at the strange and new ways he felt Spock shift against him, his mind. This was what Spock’s stoicism hid every day.

“You are t’hy’la. We share a bond, spontaneously created independently of the individuals it ties together. Your sickness affected me in ways I am still attempting to understand. My father advised me to meld with you to bring balance back to my mind. I am beginning to grasp why.”

“Why?” was all Jim could ask, not understanding.

“A meld is a singularly. . .intimate experience for my species. Even shallow melds are considered extremely personal. It is not something taken lightly. Melding with you has reassured me of your health. We are still whole and here. Together.

“I must apologize now, for my previously abhorrent behavior. While you were sick, I unashamedly used my touch-telepathy to monitor you. I also unshielded our bond. Through usage of both, I received impressions of what you were feeling and the occasional thought. It is considered a severe invasion punishable by law to do either of these things to an unaware individual, especially without consent.”

“Spock,” Jim breathed. “While I completely understand why you’re apologizing, I’m not. . .angry.”

Jim gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “I actually feel like I should be apologizing for emoting all over you when you were just trying to help me.”

“Do not,” Spock ordered. Jim felt a harsh, muted tremble beneath Spock’s sternum and realized it was a suppressed growl.

“I won’t,” he hastily reassured and thought it better to change subjects. “You also haven’t entirely answered me. Why are you only now understanding it?”

Spock’s fingers slid from his face, trailing to the nape of his neck. Jim gasped, afraid to feel Spock pull away, retreat, leave.

“Can you not still feel me?” Spock asked quietly, sensing Jim’s agitation, and Jim found that he. . .could. Feel Spock. Still there, everywhere. “Even without maintaining a meld, we can feel one another. Apart but never parted. This meld has fortified our bond. I am. . .settled, balanced, comforted. I know your thoughts. I can experience, firsthand, your wellbeing. It calms me. My father guided me to solace the only way he could with his suggestion.”

“What does it all mean?” Jim sagged further against Spock, pressing his forehead to his neck. A part of him wanted to worry, to cry and panic and shut down, back away, run, run, run. But every other part of him was satisfied, contented deeply in a way he had felt rarely during his lifetime. Self-preservation warring against want, and want was winning.

“We are t’hy’lara. Your mind is as familiar to me as my own, and as new to me as a stranger’s. The closest concept in Standard would be ‘soulmates.’ Literally translated it can be brother, friend, or lover.”

“Brother?” Jim asked, skeptically.

“Chosen brother, a platonic soulmate.”

“Ah. Okay, yeah. That actually makes perfect sense.”

“Before Surak and Reformation, it was often a shield brother, a _ne ki’ne_ who was more.”

Jim sighed, slightly awed at his understanding of the word (ne ki’ne), supplied with all of its implied meaning by Spock’s own mind.

“What about women?”

“Females were not often warriors. Our histories are not so very different. But, while uncommon, the term could be applied to females in the same context as males.”

“So, if tie’lah were friends, it was like being b-f-fs then?”

“Yes, the human colloquialism of ‘best friends forever’ could be applied.”

Jim felt gentle amusement wash over him and smiled in response.

“Non-sexual life partners,” he said with a grin. He had always liked the idea, believed he had it with Bones like the Samwise to his Frodo, the Baymax to his Hiro, the Bruce Banner to his Tony Stark.

“For a time,” Spock elaborated. “Vulcans go through a mating period every seven Old Vulcan years, which roughly converts to five Terran years. During this time, a Vulcan male who has reached sexual maturity will need to engage in a large amount of coitus or he will die. Bonded males - and in the modern era before Nero that was ninety-seven and four hundredths percent of Vulcan males - will seek out their bondmates. If the bonded couple is not yet married, they will perform a marriage ritual at the very beginning of the mating period. It is dangerous, more dangerous, for males to be unbonded during this time. It is why children are bonded and betrothed in Vulcan society, to grow as mates and ensure compatibility before this time.”

Jim’s head spun with the new information. He shuddered, caught somewhere between arousal and anxiousness at being with Spock in such a way.

“Will we do that?” He asked, hushedly

“Yes, my Jim, I will need you during my time.”

“Do you want to? Are you going to be okay with that?”

“Jim, my t’hy’la, I wish to have a fully realized bond with you. No Vulcan eagerly anticipates pon farr, but I am. . .gratified that mine will be with you.”

“What does that mean? ‘Fully realized bond?’”

“Marriage. Vulcan marriage involves the completion of betrothal bonds by a healer in front of an audience of family members. I wish for you to be my husband, James. I wish to have our bond legitimized on the sands of New Vulcan, to become permanent.”

Jim felt an overwhelming swell of emotion within and touched an answering roil from Spock. He shivered.

“Never doubt my desire for you, my James,” Spock murmured right into his ear.

A taste of that desire gutted Jim and replaced his insides with hot embers.

“ _Spock_ ,” he gasped shakily. “I— I feel like I should be terrified of this; I _am_ terrified. I feel a need to abandon ship, run as fast as I can the other way and not stop until I die. I’m scared because I… What have I done to earn this? What’s the exchange, Spock? How do I let you that close without there being a catch?”

“Oh ashayam, my Jim,” Spock murmured, clutching him closer. “Already we are too close. We are t’hy’lara and our bond is strong. There is nowhere you can run that I would not follow.”

Jim gasped again as a possessiveness he could barely comprehend lanced into him. He grit his teeth and clenched his hands in Spock’s tunic, instinctively fighting against it even as an often ignored piece of himself swelled with _joy_ in response.

“You have done nothing to earn this, Jim,” Spock growled, and Jim felt that buried in that possessiveness was a tightly restrained ball of rage and sorrow. For him. His. “You exist, and you are my t’hy’la. I would have you in every capacity you would allow, and you _will_ allow it in every capacity.”

Jim gulped compulsively several times in a row, as though he was trying to physically swallow down this information, these feelings, his own feelings. He trembled. How had his life changed so drastically in less than a week? He was dizzy with revelation, raw.

“I want that,” Jim admitted so quietly he could barely hear himself. “Didn’t think it was possible to even be _able_ to want something like this.”

This declaration caused a strange mixture of emotions to leak over their. . .bond into Jim. There was sorrow and sympathy, shame and guilt, curiosity and fear. He had upset Spock in some way. His distress at having done so was like being doused with cold water.

“What?” Jim asked, pushing at Spock’s shoulders to place an arm’s distance between them. “What is it?”

“I— When you had your nightmare before becoming completely lucid yesterday I was pulled into your mind. I am sorry, my Jim. I saw.”

“What—” Jim swallowed thickly, freezing with narrowed eyes fixed on Spock’s, dark and ashamed. Dread churned in his gut. “What exactly did you see?”

“That vile place of snow,” Spock stated. He dragged two fingers over the skin above one of Jim’s eyebrows. “You were an emaciated child there. And you carried so much pain and self-hatred. You did not think yourself good enough and blamed yourself for things you could not control. This was not something I had meant to see, but I do not regret seeing it. I know you have not left this place behind, real or created. It was deeply private and I had no place seeing it without your permission.”

Jim had to look away from Spock, had to let go of his shoulders. He simultaneously wished to climb off Spock’s lap (regain distance), and burrow closer (hide). He crossed his arms over his chest. What did Spock think of him now, after glimpsing just how fucked-up he was? It had taken him so long for Spock to see him as a capable captain. Now he could only imagine how broken and unfit he seemed…

“Jim, you know what I think of you,” Spock said.

His hands came around to slide from Jim’s elbow to wrist, fingers dipping into palms. Jim’s hands tingled pleasurably and Spock glanced up at him through eyelashes and bangs, playful and coy. He carefully cradled one of Jim’s hands in his, curling inward all but his first two fingers. Those two he brought up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss. Jim felt it jolt up his arm as though he were touching an exposed wire, as though it were his lips pressing to Spock’s.

“Look inward, ashayam,” Spock murmured against them. “I could never consider you to be less than what you are.”

Jim closed his eyes, let himself feel the slope of Spock’s lips pressed warmly to the pads of his fingertips, focused on the steady pulse of his heartbeat there. It helped him find the sense of other (Spock) radiating from somewhere deep in his own consciousness. He examined it closely for the emotions he had felt before. There was sadness, for Jim’s pain; shame, for having intruded; fear, for Jim’s well-being and for Jim’s reaction to the intrusion; and an overpowering curiosity, to know this close-kept secret of Jim’s, to know all of Jim. He wanted to prove he could be trusted.

Overarching through all of these was a nebulous. . . _thing_ Jim shied away from. It terrified him, what it might be.

What he wanted it to be.

It wasn’t something he could handle just yet.

He let himself collapse forward, pressed his forehead to Spock’s again and breathed him deeply in. There was a tremulous sob caught in his throat that he had to swallow several times to dispel.

“I’ll tell you,” he whispered, determined to once again prove himself. He would not, could not, let himself get in the way. “I promise, I’ll tell you soon. Very soon. I want to give you everything, but I don’t know how to. I _will_ give you what I can, I promise.”

“That is all I desire, my Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meld finally happened! But both are still pretty flayed. They're gonna need time to settle in to their bond, find how they mesh.
> 
> Since I only did a single editing read-through there might be some issues. Feel free to point them out if you see them. If you didn't see them, feel free to drop a comment with your favorite line or something.


	19. Visiting Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has some company drop in, eats some chocolate, kind of fights with Spock, then passes out because it's exhausting doing all of that, okay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I hope y'all will forgive the late posting since this is a long chapter! Life suddenly went right for me and I was caught in a whirlwind of goings ons. In less than two weeks I had been hired at two places and then I put in my two weeks at my (then) current job. That was less than a month ago. I had an overlap where for about a week and a half I was at three jobs. (I got called in for an interview on a thursday, then monday I got a callback to talk to the owners and was hired, then the very next day I got called in at another place I applied at that I'd worked at before to set up a time to chat. A little less than a week later I was hired and I had put in my two weeks at my then-current job. It was literally that fast.)  
> Then my cat got injured and his upper arm/shoulder area got super infected and I had to take him in for an emergency vet visit (which scared the shit out of me but he was a sweetie, letting me keep the holes clean). And my platonic soulmate (or bff as they're colloquially known as) graduated nursing school and I had to help her two-year-old son pin her at the ceremony.
> 
> I'm still reeling at it all.
> 
> Anyway, more notes at the bottom, so enjoy this next installment. Only about two more to go!

_~∞~_

Jim had napped again after their meld.

He was able to stay awake long enough to eat everything Spock insisted on hand feeding him, invoking a warm, shuddery feeling in his chest that had his fingers fidgeting with the silken fabric covering Spock’s chest and shoulders. It was hard to maintain eye contact during the whole affair, and it was even harder to drag his gaze away. He felt stupid under Spock’s dark scrutiny, but every time his eyes dropped or drifted from Spock’s, there were two fingers coaxing him back. They tipped his chin up, traced his jawbone and rested on the jumping muscle at the bolt of his jaw as he chewed, trailed down his neck when he swallowed. It was humbling. It was worshipful. Jim trembled under the attention, unsure and off balance under the attention.

After he was full, he awkwardly shuffled to the fresher to relieve himself, and by the time he was sitting back down (on his couch this time for a change of scenery), he was groggy again. He had wanted to stay awake longer but his body just felt so tired and his mind kept drifting before he found himself nodding off. He had tried to watch Spock organizing the stack of padds on his desk - full of backlogs of necessary, captainly datawork. But even with the appealing sight of Spock in general nearby, Jim was unable to remain awake.

When he woke up again, it was once again to a slow, foggy mess in his mind. It took him several seconds to reorient and remember where he was, which was on the couch, curled on his side with his thick, microfiber blanket draped over him and tucked around the bottom half of his face. His room had been darkened and his eyes immediately fell upon Spock resting on the carpeted floor near his feet. Spock had his back resting comfortably against the couch and his legs folded neatly in a crisscross. There was a padd in his lap, braced corner to corner against his legs with one hand on top to hold it in place. The soft glow from it was a gentle burnt sienna.

Spock blinked slowly once before his chin tipped up and he turned to look at Jim. Jim realized, with the slight shift, that his bottom leg was out from under the blanket and his shin was pressed snugly across the back of Spock’s shoulders. There was a comfortable, damp warmth between these points of contact.

Neither spoke. Jim stared foggily into Spock’s sloe-eyed inquirous gaze and felt a rush of heat expand from his chest.

The door chimed.

“Enter,” Spock commanded lowly without taking his eyes away from Jim.

The door slid open and Sulu and Chekov waltzed in. Sulu did, anyway. Chekov bounced.

“Whoa, it’s dark in here,” Sulu commented, giving the room a quick sweep to locate him and Spock. When he did, he tugged Chekov over by the shirt so they could take a seat on the coffee table that he had been shifted back to accommodate Spock. Chekov appeared to be trying valiantly not to stare too openly at their First Officer casually sitting on the floor in his civvies.

“Hey,” Sulu greeted and Jim shifted, pulling himself more upright. As upright as he could get. He shoved his pillow up against the arm of the couch and leaned on it.

“Hey,” he returned, voice croaky. Spock held up a glass of water for him, having pulled it from who knows where. Jim took it and had a sip. Spock went back to his padd.

“McCoy told us you were released from sickbay this morning. We meant to stop in during lunch but Spock advised us to wait until shift end since you were still pretty exhausted.”

Jim cut an exasperated glance at his first.

“Yeah, drug-addled nightmares does not a good night’s sleep make,” Jim conceded. “It’s been a rough week.”

“Did you really puke on Spock?”

Jim snorted. “Where did you hear that?”

“Around,” Sulu offered vaguely. Chekov nodded in agreement.

“Star mapping ees not ze most entertaining use of time,” he added in support. “Eet ees natural zat ze whole ship knows.”

“Well,” Jim said wryly and smirked. Of course he knew what the gossip on a starship was like. “Unless I’m remembering incorrectly due to the drugs, I didn’t actually throw up on Spock.”

“There was a brief moment where you nearly did,” Spock stated quietly. “If you had not backed away slightly and I had not been quick to grab the waste can, you would have vomited on my lap.”

Sulu and Chekov both snickered a bit and Jim rolled his eyes.

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were feverish and quite exhausted at the time.”

“Eet seems zat ze rumors about Mister Spock switching from sciences to medical for you are true, den.” Chekov smirked and Sulu grinned with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I heard he gave the medical staff hell trying to be your own little nursemaid.”

“Guys, really,” Jim said with an admonishing tone that was disregarded.

“It’s too bad you were out of it the whole time. I’m sure he would have had no problems being a naughty nurse for our dear captain in his time of need.”

Chekov snorted.

“Guys!” Jim was caught between shock and playful (but-still-not-really) outrage as the two laughed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sulu apologized with a hand wave. “It’s been a bit of a running joke on the bridge for the last few days. I couldn’t resist.”

“You realize Spock is literally two feet away from you, right?” Jim gave them a version of Spock’s Eyebrow of Disapproval™.

“We’re not on duty. Spock doesn’t give a shit.”

“Or maybe he’s just filing your little insinuations away into a box in his head called ‘Ongoing Collection of Evidence to Eliminate Misters Sulu and Chekov’ and he’s really just biding his time to off you in a way that would be an ironclad accident. He’s a Vulcan; he could easily do it. And no one would suspect him because his whole society is pacifistic.”

“Ah, but Keptin, you just said yourself, he ees pacifistic. He would never go to such lengths.”

“That’s cute, but remember what happens when Spock gets angry? Because you’ve got to take into account just how far he’s willing to let you push before he just lets go and then you’re screwed.”

Spock was nowhere near angry. In fact, when Jim concentrated on Spock he felt impressions of intent focus and light amusement. It was novel - exciting - and brought a general sense of contentment over Jim.

“Speaking freely, Captain, if anyone’s screwed it’s you,” Sulu stated and Jim flushed along the back of his neck to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t believe Sulu was actually-

“You piss him off the most and you’re not dead yet. I think Chekov and I have a pretty fantastic chance of continued life.”

Jim realized that the innuendo had been unintentional and hoped to god, gods, the Cosmic Energy of the Universe perpetually laughing at him, that Sulu didn’t notice that he’d taken it the wrong way.

One glance at the glee on Chekov’s face killed that hope. The Cosmic Energy of the Universe continued to laugh.

“Oh my god!” Sulu slapped his thigh, face a manic expression of glee. “That wasn’t what I meant at all but holy shit!”

“So eet ees true? You and Mister Spock?” Chekov also appeared disproportionately elated.

“No! No. That’s not— ...Kinda.” His eyes flickered over Spock, worried that the Vulcan might take his denial the wrong way. The amusement that wasn’t his grew. Bastard.

“It’s… Not quite. That. A thing. Yet. I mean…”

“Hey, don’t freak, okay. We get it. You’re not in the greatest position to be trying to figure it out.”

“We were just teasing, Keptin.”

“No harm.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“We’re the best.” Sulu shrugged with a shit-eating grin. Jim smiled softly. He knew Sulu meant it in relation to their jobs but he was suffused with a familiar, tight warmth. It was probably his exhaustion or lingering effects from meds or rawness from the last week, but he suddenly felt like crying.

“You really are,” he said tightly and had to clear his throat before he started sobbing like a baby.

“Are you alright, Keptin?” Chekov asked, voice gentle and concerned, light in a way only he could achieve. Jim nodded fervently, waving them off as he took another few sips of the water still in his hand.

There was a tentative touch to his ankle bone where his foot rested inches from Spock’s shoulder, pulled away when he sat up.

“I believe it might be time for this visitation to end. You are becoming increasingly fatigued, Jim,” Spock stated authoritatively and Jim shook his head.

“I’m fine, Spock. I promise,” Jim reassured, swallowing thickly. “I’m fine.”

He definitely didn’t want Sulu and Chekov to leave yet. He hadn’t realized how _lonely_ he’d been feeling, disconnected. It was probably just phantoms from his nightmares but having them nearby was soothing a deeply fearful part of himself that generally went unacknowledged.

Spock shot them a dark look before turning back to his datawork, but not quite losing himself in it. The atmosphere between them calmed and Jim cleared his throat.

“So, star mapping?” he started, trying to keep the conversation going. “I thought we were en route to a planet when I got sick?”

“We were, Keptin,” Chekov said with a nod. “But McCoy reported you to ze admiralty.”

“What!? Oh, fuck, that’s—”

“Don’t worry. He just said that you caught something nasty and it could take up to a week for you to recover and it was really no surprise you got sick because your immune system’s been so compromised by stress yada yada blahblahblah.” Sulu rolled his hand around in the air with his eyes and then huffed. He, very lightly, smacked the back of his knuckles against Jim’s knee. “He even got Spock off the hook, too, with a similar variation. Viruses picked up with resupply, ship going through a full sterilization, he expected at least fifty more of the crew to catch something, strain and stress, ‘even the Vulcan’s affected,’ et cetera. We were reassigned to star mapping until we’re functional again. Everyone’s been pretty happy about taking it easy, so thanks for puking on everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, my pleasure and all.” Jim injected as much sarcasm as he could into his words. “For real though, did anyone else get sick?”

“Yeah, like thirty people.” Sulu nodded. Jim gave a low whistle.

“None nearly as bad as you, Keptin,” Chekov elaborated. “A few unfortunate instances of puking haf occurred, but nussing nearly as bad as Doctor McCoy implied.”

“And he was still able to swing us all a full week each - that is, a consecutive seven days, of shore leave at the completion of our abandoned diplomatic mission.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Your pick of any currently stable Federation planet with the resources, and we’re in orbit for two weeks to give the whole crew time planetside.”

“Damn. Remind me to get ahold of something smooth and homegrown-homedistilled for him.”

“I believe I can help you with zat, if you are needing it, sir,” Chekov said slyly.

The door chimed again and Spock once again gave the command to allow entry.

Uhura stepped just inside and startled momentarily at their gathering.

“Boys,” she drawled, giving them an imperious eyebrow raise. “Spock.”

“Nyota,” Spock returned with a little nod.

“Well, I guess we should be heading out,” Sulu said and stood up. Chekov followed with a bob of his head in Jim’s direction. “We still need to catch dinner.”

“If you do need help with your gift idea…” Chekov trailed off and Jim smiled up at him.

“I’ll get ahold of you.”

And with that they exited, giving Uhura quiet “see-ya’s” as they passed her.

Uhura took their spot on the coffee table. She nudged Jim’s knee with the toe of her boot.

“How’re you doing?”

“Tired mostly. I feel like all I’ve been doing is sleeping, and now that I’m free from sickbay, I still can’t quit.”

“Good. You need the rest. No one’s expecting you to bounce back right away. Christine told me that all that vomiting really screwed your stomach up.”

“Yeah. That’s me. Immunocompromised my whole life, in one way or another. I swear my medical file has to be a fucking terabyte at this point.”

“They’re going to be using it for a study one of these days, I bet. If it’s as bad as I’ve heard. And Chris told me your immune system’s pretty screwed.”

“One of these days? Heck, they’re already doing it. ‘Possible Long-term Effects of Radiation Exposure on Infants,’ or whatever.”

“Jeeze.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, I brought you this.”

She dipped her hand into her uniform pocket and held out a chocolate bar to him. Jim, slightly stunned at the fact that there was an actual chocolate bar on his ship and also that it was being offered to him, took a second too long to respond. He was just reaching for it when Spock snatched it up.

“Hey!” he protested, lunging for the candy.

A sudden wave of dizziness gripped the back of his skull, dragging him down, and he slumped awkwardly over Spock’s shoulder, gripping his exposed bicep for dear life as he waited for his equilibrium to return.

Spock shifted beneath him.

“No,” Jim protested breathily, holding back a whimper as his vision started to fuzz out.

Spock ignored him and Jim scrabbled at him with numbing fingers until his upper arms were grasped tightly and he was lowered back down to rest against the armrest. Spock brushed his hair back tenderly and helped him sip some water as the dizziness abated and his vision faded back into focus. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t had to deal with trying to keep his eyes focused while fighting off the effects of his suddenly weak, unbalanced body.

“You must move slow, t’hy’la,” Spock admonished tenderly.

“You took my candy,” Jim countered, and it was supposed to be accusing yet playful, but it came out more like whiny, teary child.

“Nyota, this comes from your personal reserve, I assume?” Spock questioned, holding up the chocolate in question.

“Of course. Where else would I get a chocolate bar for a gift?”

Jim turned his attention to her, sensing a weird tension between the two. Her dark eyes sparkled. What was that about?

“This is unacceptable for consumption. Jim’s stomach would not be able to handle this and it would inevitably make him sick again.”

Jim stared at Spock, shocked at the level of _accusation_ in his first’s tone.

“What the hell, Spock? She’s just being nice.”

“She is not. She is meddling in business that is not her own.”

“Whoa, back down, mister,” Uhura said in that commanding, smooth way she had, the condescending one that just dared a person to ignore her. “I’m just doing something nice for my friend. And he can stomach it just fine. I’m human, Spock; I know more about this shit than you do. As long as he doesn’t gorge himself on it, he’ll be fine. And he had no intention of doing that anyway, did you, Jim?”

“Uh, no. It looks pretty dark. I could probably do two bites max before it got too bitter to handle.”

“See? He knows his limits.” Uhura took a deep breath, as though needing to ground herself. She continued in a much calmer tone. “You know that I only eat dark, Spock. The darker, the better. This is what I had to offer, so I did. That’s all. That’s it.”

“Then this had _nothing_ to do with providing an opportunity to intoxicate me, thus lowering my inhibitions while Jim was unaware.”

All pretense of trying to remain calm snapped away from Uhura’s expression. Her face turned stony and her eyes glittered angrily.

“You know what? I’m _really glad_ that you have _finally_ admitted that you care a whole lot for Jim, but _I really_ don’t care what that means for you two. Jim, it’s clear that he’s still a little bit too cave-brained to handle this conversation so I’ll catch you later. And just so you have an idea of what this is all about, chocolate can be mildly intoxicating for Vulcans and in its rawest form is the equivalent of doing shots of moonshine for us. The higher percentage of cacao, the worse it is.”

“Uh, what?”

“Get better quick. We’re all bored out of our minds, Captain. We miss you on the bridge.”

And with that, Uhura departed with a swish of her long hair

“Is… Was she for real?” Jim asked tentatively since Spock was just glaring at the door.

“Elaborate,” Spock stated almost coldly.

“Uh, does chocolate affect Vulcans like alcohol does humans?”

Spock sighed, very softly.

“Unfortunately, that is not a myth or rumor. Cacao does have intoxicating effects on Vulcan physiology.”

“And that matters why? Uhura gave the chocolate to _me_.”

“Knowing you would most likely insist on sharing with me.”

“And? You could say no if you didn’t want to get drunk.”

“She knows I cannot say no to you, Jim.”

“You sure ‘bout that? Because I’m pretty sure you say ‘no’ to me all the time.”

Jim was so confused right then. Were they fighting? What was even going on?

“I would not have. And she knows what I am like when I have ingested cacao.”

“What? You start using contractions? Reveal that you’re not as completely, unsecretly ignorant about common human vernacular via using popular idioms?”

“Let me phrase this in a way you will not misunderstand, Jim. Nyota and I had used the intoxicating effects of chocolate to provide variation in our sexual relations during our previously established relationship.”

_What?_

“She got you drunk to be a better fuck? Wow, that is so the opposite effect of alcohol on humans.”

Spock turned to Jim, a note of questioning floating between them.

“A lack of coordination and a proneness for giggles or extreme melancholy usually aren’t great combinations for screwing. Then there's whiskey dick. But, hey, some people are into it I guess. It takes all types.”

“Vulcans,” Spock started slowly, carefully enunciating in an abruptly lower tone, eyes darker. There was a tiny little warning bell being furiously rung in the back of Jim’s mind. “Do not indulge to excess. It is a vastly different situation, though the effects of lowered inhibition due to intoxication are similar.”

Jim couldn’t think of a response to that and instead leaned forward to snatch up the chocolate bar from Spock’s hand. He tore into it messily, not bothering with his usual neat unwrapping in case Spock took it from him. Once enough was exposed, he took a huge bite - easily two squares worth.

He closed his eyes as the oddly addicting bitterness flooded his tastebuds, the cloying taste of chocolate hitting the back of his throat. He chewed slowly to savor it. Totally worth the headrush.

His eyes snapped open when Spock harshly snatched the chocolate back, glaring at it as though it had personally offended his culture, his deceased mother, and the ship all in one fell swoop.

“Hey!” Jim protested through his mouthful of rich, melting chocolate. Fuck, there were even subtle notes of berry and rosemary(?). Spock better not hurt his chocolate.

Spock turned his glare on him, and Jim belatedly remembered that they were bonded and Spock could probably feel his annoyance.

“You will not consume any more of this today,” he said softly. Jim gulped down the mostly melted, completely pulverized chocolate in his mouth. Shit, Spock was actually angry. He felt the icy burn of it at the back of his neck, like Spock had just clasped his nape with freezing fingers.

Spock executed a sharp turn and disappeared through the fresher. He returned barely a minute later lacking only the chocolate.

“Are you hungry, ashayam?” he asked, and his voice was calmer. Jim ran his tongue over the outsides of his teeth, chasing the leftover taste of cacao. He shook his head, watching Spock closely.

Spock stood paces away from the door to the fresher, ramrod straight and lithe arm muscles tight even with his hands in seemingly loose fists. And god, he just looked _so fucking good_. The exposed skin of his arms was really doing it for Jim. Especially his forearms which were covered in a layer of dark hair that neatly laid just so. There was a specific type of warmth seeping into his lower abdomen area.

With a jolt, Jim remembered that Spock knew. Jim caught Spock’s gaze, heated and unblinkingly focused on him. Spock _knew_. It hit him with a thrill and then Spock was _right there_ , looming above him. Jim surged up, reached for him, grabbed at his shoulder and the back of his neck. He  _needed_ to kiss Spock. If he didn’t, he felt like he might die. What the fuck? And how was he supposed to resist with the delicate bow of Spock’s upper lip right there?

Spock caught him around the waist (broad, hot, palms, tight, _hng_ ).

But instead of pulling him closer, he was easing Jim back down, easily holding him at a distance. And Jim realized they hadn’t kissed earlier, when they were… Was it a confession? It didn’t matter. It just made him need that kiss more. His mouth _ached_ for it.

Spock pushed him down onto the couch and Jim felt - for not even a second - Spock’s own desire. Then it was taken away, all of it. It was like a thick door slamming down, dropped between them. He was cold (bereft, wanting) without Spock’s presence leaving wispy impressions on the edge of his awareness.

“You are too distracting, too tempting,” Spock husked, pressing their foreheads together. Jim’s fingers immediately tangled in thick dark locks and he tipped his head to the side, trying to slot their lips together. It would be bliss, he was sure of it.

Two of Spock’s fingers pressed to his mouth, halting him. The expected (unexpected) zing happened and Jim instinctively pursed his lips against those fingers, kissing them. Spock sucked in a sharp breath. Jim felt heat beneath his cheeks, but it didn’t rise to the surface like a blush. He pulled away slightly and found a green tinge to Spock’s cheekbones. Oh.

Oh.

“You must rest more, ashayam,” he whispered and Jim pouted. There was still the steeping of desire in his cells and he wasn’t tired.

He _wasn’t_.

Spock straightened up and took a step back, easing the intensity of what Jim was feeling. It hit him suddenly, an inability to keep his eyes open, the mental fog of exhaustion.

“No,” he whined and flopped back fully onto the couch. “Spock, I don’t _want_ to sleep.”

“You are still recuperating, Jim. You must sleep and eat and rest to regain your strength.”

Jim blew a raspberry at him and rolled over to face the back of the couch. He stubbornly crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut but…

He glanced over his shoulder at Spock still watching him. With Jim’s arousal dampening, he mentally prodded Spock’s shielding. It dissolved under his touch and Jim was suffused with Spock’s warm presence.

“If I move to the bed,” Jim started but his voice was _weak_. He suddenly felt like crying and holy hell, maybe he was more tired than he thought what the fuck.

“Will you lie down with me?” He squeaked, needing to give voice to this. He needed to feel Spock close again. What the fuck, _really_?

He knew he was feeling a bit. . . _vulnerable_ and _raw_ and _unsteady_ but seriously. What the actual fuck. Why did it seem so much worse this time around? Was it Spock? Was it the bond? Was it because he had an audience and was fighting against it more instead of giving himself time to process like he was supposed to?

Spock stepped up to the couch and dropped down, shoving Jim up tightly against the back of it. He laid down behind Jim, spooning up against him as he wrapped his arms around him until Jim was snugged in place between the cushions of the couch and Spock’s warm body. Jim grabbed the back of Spock’s hand resting over his navel and sighed, feeling looser, sleepier. Still wanted to cry though.

(What. the. fuck.)

Spock’s breath puffed hotly through the short hairs at the base of his skull and Jim melted into him with the suffusion of that heat down his spine. He was practically laying on top of Spock. His couch really wasn’t made for this. He’d have to put in a requisition for a bigger one. One made for cuddling.

“Rest, please,” Spock breathed and Jim squeezed his hand in lieu of verbally responding.

How was it possible to feel so content?

(And crappy?)

His skin tingled and he couldn’t tell if it was goosebumps from happiness or a symptom of his fatigue.

He contemplated it for all of two seconds before he was asleep once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... Sorry that I keep creating a build-up with no payoff. But also, doesn't that make it sweeter when it _does_ happen? Rating's about to bump because next chapter, we're gonna _**earn**_ that Capital E! I hope you're all excited for it! And then just one chapter after that. (From what I planned. Hopefully, everything goes to plan.) Any thoughts on this all? Excited that Spock and Jim are gonna bang soon? Disappointed at the looming end? Give me all of your thoughts (ohm nom nom).


	20. Finally, Fucking Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The emotional fuckfest everyone and their godmother has been waiting for. Jim contemplates the nature of his life, finally gets that shower he's been thinking about since he left medbay. Spock is a deliciously attractive sweetie who isn't as in control of his emotions or responses as he'd like to be. It's a hot mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware~! There be _italics_ here!
> 
> I am so fucking sorry for keeping you guys waiting for fucking ever. (But also, like not really. I was more angry at myself.) That was unintentional. Shit happened. Oh my god, did shit happen.
> 
> And then this chapter just kept cock-blocking itself. No joke. I was so annoyed at the first draft of the very first part that I rewrote practically the entire thing. It was around 5k words at that point. Ugh. Anyway, it turned out a lot better this way. It was fucking impossible to just write on this beast. (Which it is, btdubs. At 25 pages in googledocs and over 13,600 words, this chapter is only 6k words less than half of the entire word count for the entire story up to this point.) (I did the math. Because I only like math when it's for pointless things like this.) The last 3k words were a nightmare. From the 7k mark to the 10k point, I was hammering out about 500 words every time I worked on it. Super disappointing. I kept getting distracted by everything. My hands, a lack of chewing gum, non-existent hunger that still made me feel a need to eat, the music was too loud, the music was too quiet, the room was too hot, the room was too cold... Literally could not focus to save my life. Not even when I hit a bout of sexy-time inspiration. Agony I tell you. Finally just found a 2 hour chill-out dubstep/electronic/whatever mix that let me concentrate. Just the perfect amount of bass and flowing melodies to create a mood but not put me to sleep, but also not interrupt me with stupid words or mood-killing misplaced songs.
> 
> Whoo~ But it's here now! There was actually a moment that I contemplated splitting this chapter up just to have something to post but I could not get my brain to let go of the idea of this story being a perfectly divisible 21 chapters long. (And by divisible, I mean by three. Don't ask. It's stupid. But my brain latched on.)
> 
> Also, all of you should follow me on [The Hell Website™](http://jadedfalling.tumblr.com)! Or check it out, or whatever. Have I pimped my lame-ass blog here yet? I rebagel a lot of spirk, kirk, spock, bones, uhura, gays in space/star trek, General Gay Stuff, Chris Pine (fuck him, but like _fuck him_ , ya know), Wordplay as Foreplay, ZQ/GQ Motherfucker, hilarious shit, and some social/political crap. I post a lot of stupid things, General Life Crap, random thoughts, updates on my writing progress, some pictures, what I do when I'm not agonizing over my stupid writing. It's a mess. Seriously, feel free to pester me there if you want me to get my ass in gear and do shit. And like, you are about 98.4% more likely to get excerpts from where I am in my writing if you pester me.
> 
> Next chapter should probably be out quicker. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. I have it all written out in my head so ... Maybe.
> 
> Before you read the chapter though, **WARNINGS**!!!!! This chapter includes explicit sexual content, emotions, rimming, rough(ish) handling, emotions, anal sex, possessive thoughts/words/actions, shower foreplay, and _emotions_. Seriously, if you can't handle the emotions, you better click back!
> 
> Well, enjoy this hell-chapter, my dudes~
> 
> <3

_~∞~_

The bone-deep phantom hooks of ice melted. The claw of nausea that twisted in his gut released. The fragile ache of broken-glass-grinding joints liquefied and seeped away. He was warm and buoyed by gently rolling waves. He was safe there, floating in that space.

And that, in all actuality, was wherein the problem lied.

James T. Kirk was never safe.

He was born prematurely. He was born in space. He was exposed to radiation, death, disaster. His birth was conflict and pain and loss, fire and the void of space. From that point on, it was like these abstract, visceral _things_ were dogging him everywhere.

Some foods tried to kill him. Most medications caused hours and sometimes days of suffering until the doctors were able to draw up a list of ever-increasing things he was allergic to. And when his body wasn’t trying to kill itself in a misguided attempt at survival, there was Frank, his stepdad, knocking him and Sam around.

When Sam left and Jim couldn’t take it anymore, he pushed back at the pain. Like a bruise that needed to be poked to see just how much it hurt, he floored his dad’s antique car right off a cliff into the quarry. It hurt, it stung, but it felt like life. A new kind of pain.

He barely had time to savor it before a planet, a man, a fungus, his stomach, food (again), were all vying to make him hurt the most. He was invincible, he decided. He should have died before he was born. He should have died  _after_ he was born. He should have gone down with the car, just another neglected, abused - _forgotten_ \- statistic. And he should have died so many times over stuck in that place, fighting to preserve life, trapped in a cell, “rescued,” readjusting… before he ever saw earth again, he ~~should have~~ could have been dead a hundred times over.

 _Invincible_.

He existed to suffer. And he wouldn’t die until he had suffered _t_ _horoughly_. He’d tested the theory with _sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll_. Years hazed past as he threw himself at everything that piqued his curiosity at all, wondering each time he did if it would finally be the thing to end it all. It was a slow kind of death. Full of waiting and seeing. Full of staring into nothing and listening to his heartbeat - anticipating the moment when it might. just. quit.

He figured he’d die on _that barroom floor_ , in a blur of motion, surrounded by a haze of drunken rage. Then Christopher- _fucking_ -Pike waltzed into his life and challenged him to leave it.

But Jim couldn’t.

What Jim could do was put death on the back burner, and he did for three years, trying dutifully to really apply himself in a way he hadn’t done since before… before he ~~knew~~    ~~thought he knew~~   knew what real pain was. Then Nero happened and Jim got his ass kicked to Vulcan and back (almost literally), and he thought, each step along the way, _is this it? Is this when I die?_ The vaccination Bones used on him could have killed him. Vulcan Space, they could have turned into so much floating wreckage like the rest. Space-jump, he could have died like Olson. Flinging himself off the drill to save Sulu (a guy he barely knew from the academy), he could have died but at least he had fucking tried. Again.

Defying orders, Delta Vega, provoking Spock, Nero, Ayel, the red matter, the black hole… So many times Jim thought he could have died.

Then there was Khan and when Pike- ....was gone....Jim realized this was _it_. To have someone give a real shit about him, then have that person violently ripped away from him… Jim knew when he was sent on that ghost mission by Marcus he was signing his death warrant. He wasn’t going to come back alive. When it became clear just what exactly that clusterfuck was, he realized no matter how much he believed in his own death, he couldn’t have the deaths of his crew on his conscience. He’d grown reckless and younger him would hate who he had become. He might go out in a blaze of glory, but it wouldn’t be until he could save them. Save the Federation. Expose Marcus’ machinations. Ensure Khan was down and out, **1-2** **K** nock **O** ut, wouldn’t be getting back up.

It wasn’t until he was standing outside that door into the warp core with Scotty at his shoulder that he really _got it_.

He understood just why his dad had gone out the way he had, leaving them behind.

A beat before he made his decision, the only thing he was truly grateful for was that he hadn’t decided to settle down at any point and have kids. There would be no one to grow up hearing about a noble father’s love but never knowing it. There was no one to miss him. He’d save his crew, Bones, his— ...Spock. Just like his dad, but with the added benefit of not hurting anyone by leaving them behind. It would _finally_ be enough.

The radiation in the chamber was the most pain he had ever physically felt.

 _It would be enough_.

He didn’t think it would be a mistake (albeit one he would make every time) until Spock was on the other side of the AlON door, and Jim saw his pain, his tears. Saw over that blue-clad shoulder, Scotty, watching helplessly. The point was that with his organs painfully liquefying, his muscles deteriorating, his stinging skin boiling minutely, his lungs burning away— The point was that it would be enough pain and sacrifice, enough heroism, and the suffering would end there with him slipping away.

Because no matter what you did, he knew, it wasn’t worth a damn unless you died.

And the crew was safe. They were _safe_. (He wasn’t sure that they would stay that way and that scared him.)

( _Scared_ him.)

Then Spock (Spock! a _Vulcan_ ) was _crying_ ,  Scotty had a devastated, lost look on his face- like everything he believed in was disintegrating, and Uhura was gasping into her palm...

(Jim was never really sure if he imagined these things, even though they _felt_ real, because supposedly he was dead before Uhura was even there. If he was though, how did he have such a vivid memory of her face? Of her high, reedy breaths as she tried to smother her shock?)

Jim felt a new kind of fear. It wasn’t thrilling. It wasn’t liberating. It didn’t feel like options and control. It felt like loss, acrid and ashy in the back of his throat. It made his burning blood feel like ice and his heart stop. (Or maybe that was the death that was also greying out his vision.)

Jim was scared.

Jim was _terrified._

Not for the safety of those he swore he would protect. Like before. When he _couldn’t_ die until they were _safe_.

Not of the pain he might be forced to endure, because boiling to death from radiation was probably the literal worst and he was strangely fine with it.

Not of being left behind. (He quit getting close, letting people close. Lesson - fucking - learned.)

No. For once in Jim’s life, he was afraid of the possibilities and potential that died with him. He was afraid of losing the myriad of futures that would never be, that _he would never see_. Witness. He was afraid to cease existing. He was afraid of leaving. In an unexpected inversion of his life, he was afraid of being the first to walk away. If dying could be considered walking away. (Truthfully, it could. Because of his insolent view of death, his indolent courtship of it... It was selfish escape _exactly like_ walking away.)

And he felt in the core of his being an understanding of true pain.

_..._

He died.

Waking up afterward was nauseating, burning agony clawing its way up his throat. It felt like penance. It felt like redemption. It felt like a do-over. It felt weightless. A purging of the festering inside - thick black coagulated pain mixed with bile and pus.

Each gasping breath was shredding when life settled back into his body.

It was a promise to do better.

Be better.

So Jim’s short life hadn’t been the greatest. It was, instead, a record of worst hits from an already shitty band.

And waking up ...happy, content, peaceful? It tasted acidic and like betrayal, like the simmering heartburn of guilt. Because the truth was that Jim hadn’t really changed much. He comforted himself with telling himself that he was _trying_ , but he knew deep down that if he was trying _harder_ he’d actually get results.

Shit.

He couldn’t even keep a promise to himself after being brought back from the dead. He wasn’t really better. Better at ignoring it all, maybe. Faking it so people think (believe, buy in to the idea that) he’s making it.

How the ever-loving fuck was he supposed to keep his promise to Spock? How was he supposed to talk about T- ....any of his crap? How was he supposed to crack himself open and show Spock all of his worst, blackened, decayed parts and pretend like he was completely okay?

(He wasn’t. He never was. Hadn’t ever been.)

There was a warm touch to the back of his hand where it rested over - gripped - his upper arm.

“Ashayam,” Spock whispered, and there was something wrong with his voice. “Please cease this.”

Jim frowned, dragging his eyelids open to see the weave of the fabric covering the back cushions of his couch.

“Huh?”

Spock exhaled, hot breath fanning out through the short hairs at the base of Jim’s skull where his mouth was pressed. It was a tightly controlled breath. And his fingers squeezed almost involuntarily around the back of Jim’s.

“Cease injuring yourself, cease this self-flagellation,” Spock said and his speech noticeably wavered.

Jim twisted his fingers in Spock hold, intending to clasp Spock’s fingers, comfort him. (Spock was upset, something upsetting Spock, it was wrong, wrong just like—) He paused when he felt a sticky drag between the pads of his fingers and the skin of his arm. Instead of grabbing for Spock’s hand, Jim brought his fingertips to his lips. The scent was undeniable. Still.

He licked one finger.

Sweet. Oily. Metallic. Tangy. It was instinctive to scrape his teeth over the grooves of his fingerprint, to hook the edge of one tooth under a fingernail and dig out what shouldn’t be there.

Spock snatched his hand away from his mouth.

“Please cease cleaning your finger in a such a manner,” he murmured, choked, and Jim caught brushes of appalled disgust and a faint, shameful arousal against his consciousness. He blushed.

Vulcan fingers were supposedly more sensitive due to the amount of psionic nerve points clustered in them. Which meant that what Jim had been doing could have been seen as somewhere between disturbingly morbid and disgustingly hot. (Especially if Spock had been privy to even a half of his ~~malignant~~    ~~sad~~   malignant thoughts.)

(... _Yes..._ )

“Is it natural for humans to clean themselves in such a way?” Spock asked with soft curiosity. In the dim light, he examined Jim’s fingers and Jim suddenly had the urge to crane his head around and kiss Spock’s parted lips. There was a tight desire for comfort lodged at the base of his throat and maybe he could kiss Spock until it was gone. Spock probably needed the reassurance too.

Then Jim caught sight of his arm, the smearing of tacky blood and welted, scratched skin. He almost twisted his arm up to his mouth to clean it away.

Spock must’ve caught his errant thought because he dropped Jim’s hand and stared at him with slightly wider eyes, lips parted in a moue of horror.

“Come,” he stated, sliding gracefully from the couch and dragging Jim with him into an upright position with an arm around his waist. “We will clean your arm properly in the fresher.”

Jim yawned and wobbled, leaning back against Spock as his body adjusted to the change. Spock nudged him along, carefully guiding him over to the door to the fresher.

“It really is pretty normal for humans to lick their wounds, Spock. Probably just something leftover from when everyone was hunter-gathering and warrior-ing before even ancient civilization,” Jim said, rubbing his eyes in the abrupt light of the fresher.

“‘Warrior-ing’ is not a word, Jim,” Spock said tersely, opening a cabinet to pull out a medkit. “And there are up to two hundred different species of bacteria living in a human mouth at any one time. How did your species ever live long enough to build civilizations?”

_Was that why Spock had been dodging him any time they got close to kissing?_

“Geeze, Spock, low-key insulting there.”

“Low?”

Jim paused, mouth open to retort, only for a snorting laugh to escape instead.

“Wait, did you just joke? **And** _low-key_ admit to understanding human colloquialisms?”

“I never claimed not to,” Spock stated wryly, glancing at him from methodically searching through the kit. “I must admit that I do not always understand them and there are many that I do not know, but I have learned that with as many languages as humans have - on top of the many dialects of each - it is not unusual for humans to not know them all either. Indeed, I have witnessed Doctor McCoy’s more colorful metaphors, innuendo, and expressions baffle even you.”

“Him and his southernisms,” Jim muttered shaking his head.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror above the counter and it made him pause. He still looked sickly, pale, oily. Gross. He was probably rank too, smelling like B-O and stale hospital. And he was still wearing the stupid scrubs, only now the edge of one sleeve had partially-dry blood soaked into it. The scratches disappearing up under it were bright red with inflammation and dark red with dried and congealing blood.

Jim halted Spock’s hand with his own as the Vulcan was withdrawing a small aerosol of antibacterial, spray-on bandage. Spock gave him an inquiring look and Jim quickly withdrew his hand, forgetting himself (even though not even five minutes before they’d been squished impossibly close on Jim’s couch).

“I should probably just take a shower,” he mumbled and Spock froze, blinked (and holy crap, this close Jim could see his secondary eyelids flickering closed too). Spock replaced the spray.

“Very well,” he said, neatly restoring the items to their proper places and closing the medkit to replace it where it belonged.

Then he reached for the fastenings of his tunic.

“Whoa, whoa, Spock, what’re you doing?” Jim said, probably louder than necessary, raising his hands in an aborted movement to stop Spock’s hands.

“I will, of course, be joining you,” Spock stated, finished with undoing his tunic and shrugging out of it to reveal lithe, muscular shoulders. He left it in a heap on the floor.

A heap.

On the floor.

Every single one of Jim’s thoughts tripped over themselves, crashed, and caused pileups along the information highways of his mind.

Because there was Spock’s naked chest, naked torso. And Jim has been friends with the guy for years, lived next to him, shared a bathroom. He’d never seen Spock in anything less than his regulation undershirt.

Jim found it hard to breathe. He had a sudden and very visceral desire to step into Spock’s space and nuzzle against the soft spread of hair on the Vulcan’s upper chest. (Which, funny enough, looked like it was shaped like a bird with outstretched wings or something.) He wanted to breathe deep of Spock’s scent, feel his hands fall to Jim’s waist and _squeeze_ , drag him closer. Wanted to curl into that hold, rub himself chest-to-chest against Spock just to revel in the _feel_ of it.

Spock was done undoing the ties to his lounge pants by the time Jim’s brain rerouted traffic, and he dropped trou right as Jim scrambled to catch up and pulled his own shirt off.

He wasn’t quite sure what was happening but he sure as shit wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

Unfortunately, between hissing through the shirt’s material ripping away from his scabbed arm as he struggled out of it and getting momentarily stuck, he missed seeing Spock full-frontal nude before he stepped into the shower. A small pang of disappointment hit Jim.

It only took seconds for him to be dropping his shirt to the floor, but Spock was already in the shower stall, muscles rippling all the way up from his (perfectly sculpted) ass to his fingers as he reached over to the control panel to turn on the (blessedly) hot water. Jim wiggled and shoved his pants down, mouth dry, eager to join him. The water hissed out of the showerhead and caught Spock’s shoulder, spilling over and down his back. It was like watching art. Seeing a marble carving in motion.

Jade.

Pale, soft jade.

Delicately lined and chiseled.

Jim basically stumbled into the stall, entranced and aiming for his perfect man and his gorgeous body.

Just before he was about to slip his arms around Spock’s waist and plaster himself to his amazing backside, Spock twisted, hooked him around the waist, and spun him into the spray.

And Jim...

Jim’s brain shorted out.

He gasped as the hot water pounded at the nape of his neck.

He couldn’t _quit_ gasping as miles of skin pressed against him, his and Spock’s bodies molded together from knee to nipple. Water slipped sneakily between them, caught and released between their heaving chests - a weird, sensual tickle, secondary only to Spock’s body hair brushing over Jim’s smooth skin.

When Jim could focus a little better, he slowly wrapped his arms around Spock’s shoulders, up over them, felt a burning palm deliberately push against his lower back. Their gazes met and Jim trembled - the base of his skull _fizzled_ \- at the dark, searching intensity he found boring into him.

_What was he looking for? What was he finding?_

Jim licked his lips and dropped his gaze to the bow of Spock’s lip, a delicate little curve accented so sweetly by the severe line which dipped upward from its center that it had Jim wanting to cradle it against his own. He leaned forward, his eyelids drooped. He had barely brushed the peak of his own upper lip against Spock’s before, like a shock of static electricity, Spock was jerking back, holding Jim at a distance again.

Jim froze, feeling a familiar knot tying up the base of his throat, and he blinked rapidly at Spock’s panicked expression.

Like a cornered animal.

Jim swallowed against the pressure in his throat.

“I’m— ...Spock?” He whispered, feeling a chill clutch the sides of his ribs, despite the heat of the water beating down his back.

There was a beat of stillness. Silence.

Jim rocked backward on the balls of his feet to create space between them. Spock’s fingers reflexively curled around their resting place - his hipbones. Jim took a slow, shallow breath, though it did nothing to clear up his confusion or dispel the creeping fear.

“I’m... Sorry?” He said gently, and it sounded like a question. “Was that too much?”

“...Yes.” Spock breathed, barely louder than the hiss of the water.

Jim’s stomach clenched.

 _Too_ much, _too_ fast, _too_ needy, he had a tendency to come on _too_ strong most times. Bones had even admitted that, at the beginning of their friendship, the curmudgeonly doc had been exhausted by Jim’s loud and almost constant presence.

The space between Spock’s eyebrows furrowed just-so in the way that told Jim he was immensely displeased by something a split second before he was jerked forward, back to being held snug against Spock’s chest.

“Ashayam,” Spock breathed, the word weighty despite the soft way it was spoken. Jim suddenly wanted the distance between them again.

“It’s okay,” Jim whispered, knowing - somehow - what Spock was thinking—

_...displeasure, who could ever? why would anyone? how could Jim think? believe? inadequate for being earnestdedicatedardent? jim. jimjimjimjim..._

And his skin crawled just a bit, like every time someone looked too hard at him and he thought maybe they _saw_ and maybe....

“T’hy’la, no, _kroykah_.”

“It’s okay, Spock,” he whispered again, ducking his head, trying to fight back down— hide the creep of thoughts from a time long since passed when he was _‘such a pretty little fuck— we’ll let you live if— I’m sorry, Jimmy, I didn’t think we were serious— open wide boy, that’s all a mouth like yours is good for— Fucking seriously, Jim? When did you delude yourself intothinkingyouwereworthanythingmorethanagoodtime—’_

“We don’t have to kiss. We don’t have to go there. ”

“ _K’hat’n’dlawa!_ ”

Jim flinched away from the emotion-choked quality of Spock’s voice. It was too much for him, too unlike Spock, too open.

“My Jim,” Spock croaked, pressing two fingers under Jim’s chin, tilting it up. “I have already kissed you. Too many times. More than you realize.”

Without looking away from Jim’s face, he felt his way to one of Jim’s hands and curled Jim’s pinky and ring finger in toward the palm with a guiding brush of his thumb and nudged the index and middle fingers up. Then he used his two fingers under Jim’s chin to turn his head so he could see as Spock pressed their paired fingertips firmly together.

Jim shivered at the warm, champagne-bubble fizz that spread through his palm from the contact.

As Spock dragged his fingertips down Jim’s two fingers, traced the edge of his palm, he saw...

_...jim’s sweaty, pallid profile and dry, blood-flushed lips parted on gentle gasps and sighs as he exhaustedly drifted back to sleep against spock’s chest. spock dropped the washcloth in his hand back into its spot on the nightstand. then, reverently, achingly, he reached over with two fingers, hesitated for only half a second, and pressed them to jim’s lips. his breath paused. they were so soft..._

Jim shivered, feeling an echo of pressure against his mouth right where Spock had touched.

_...he was having a nightmare again. it was another that spock could hardly follow as emotion, impression, idea, sensation all swirled together on the tails of one another, chasing each other and rapidly morphing from one to the next and back. spock watched his flickering lids and working jaw and twitching lips, waiting and studying, hoping. he delicately touched two fingers to the corner of jim’s parted lips, dragged them to his jaw, traced along it up to the jumping muscle at the hinge. he pressed his fingers firmly there, trying to bleed comfort through the contact, soothe, reassure…_

Spock’s fingers caressed his wrist, followed the short line of a tendon, dipped into the crook of his elbow, continued on upward over the swell of his bicep and the ball of his shoulder until Jim had to tilt his head, letting his eyes fall closed while Spock’s fingers left a burning trail up the side of his neck to the bolt of his jaw. Jim held impossibly still as here-and-now briefly overlaid with there-and-then.

_...two of Spock’s fingers pressed very deliberately against his lips, to cease his questions and his confusion and..._

He was practically cradling Jim’s face, both hands pressing two fingers to deliberate points.

“The press of the first two digits of the hand is called ozh’esta. It is a chaste gesture of affection between bondmates, similar to hand-holding or a kiss on the cheek shared between humans,” Spock explained. His thumb fell to rest over Jim’s parted lips, which opened just the slightest bit wider. Jim let out a shaky exhale as the fingers that had been cradling his chin slid straight down his throat, along his collarbone, curved down to his ribs, and then there was a hot, broad palm and strong fingers gripping the taper of his ribcage.

“More intimate touches of fingers could be translated as similar to the touches of mouths to skin in the ways humans are so fond of,” Spock whispered, voice scratchy even with the steam of the shower swirling around them.

He briefly cupped the curve of Jim’s jaw before his open hand retraced the path of his two fingers, down Jim’s arm instead of up. One blaze of contact drifted to five as Spock’s fingers traced the back of Jim’s hand, his fingers, rounding the tips of them as Jim lifted his hand. Spock’s fingers spread, the pads of their fingers made contact just before Spock rubbed them together, his fingers slotting into the spaces between Jim’s but not clasping as expected. Instead, Spock traced his thumb up the outside of Jim’s as he pressed their palms together.

Jim had been watching intently, head tipped with his temple brushing Spock’s nose, and trying to identify how each minute brush caused such _feeling_ in him - shimmering warmth, sweet aching, butterfly chills, nonsense his brain scrambled to categorize and make sense of. With their hands not-quite clasped, Jim was suffused with the sensation that he was being held all over in an intimate, warm embrace. The gentle, clutching kind you see in only the sweetest or most tragic of romance holovids.

He shivered. Goosebumps erupted over the surface of his skin. He stepped closer to Spock, seeking more warmth even under the spraying heat of the showerhead.

Half a thought drifted through his mind straight to his mouth, unfiltered because when held so near to the other half of his everything and stuck in a tangled-ball-of-string headspace, why would it be pertinent to translate or justify.

 _“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss,”_ Jim murmured breathily before tipping his head back and finding Spock intently watching him. _“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this, for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm...is... holy palmers' kiss.”_

“Shakespeare,” Spock merely stated, but the depth of his dark-whiskey gaze betrayed him.

Jim opened his mouth to reply, maybe jokingly state that - for a brief time - he had been obsessed with Shakespeare, with the tragedy and romance, with death and the comedy of it. Then the reality of his life had turned that joy to ash in his mouth too. But here in this moment, reciting the words of one of the bard’s most famous plays, the words were no longer acrid and dry on his tongue. It was surreal. _Everything,_ since he had gotten sick, had slowly been descending into a surreal, rapturous sort of hell.

 _“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_ He continued, raising his free hand up to most-delicately trace just the edge, the peaks, of the bow of Spock’s lip with the very tip of his middle finger. He flicked that touch up over the austere, dipped line bisecting Spock’s upper lip. _“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”_

Jim leaned in, dropping his hand to curl around Spock’s nape, and said the next verse in a breath across Spock’s mouth and chin.

_“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”_

Jim hovered mere millimeters from Spock’s lips, eyes lidded, waiting with bated breath.

But Spock dipped his head, pressed their foreheads together, and gently nuzzled the side of his nose to the side of Jim’s.

“Why won’t you kiss me?”

Jim tried to keep his tone even, tried to curtail the hurt - the doubt - squeezing his chest. Tried to forget that Spock could feel it anyway. Tried to strangle it away like he did every time it reared its head.

“You had no problem doing it with Uhura, the human way. And you’ve admitted to giving me - let’s be real here - pretty damn _intimate_ Vulcan kisses—”

_...shameshameguiltshame but he would not hide, not this, not from jim..._

“I mean, am I… Am I really that… disgusting that you can’t even try it? How much did you see inside my head?”

Jim felt the tight warring sensation of being caught with too much to express and not enough time or words to do it.

“It is not that I do not desire it, Jim,” Spock stated breathily, a dangerous touch of anger there. “It is that I fear it. Already, I touched you once and could not fathom the possibility of never doing it again. If I kiss you, my Jim, I would not wish to stop. I dislike the loss of control the mere thought gives me. ...Furthermore, a shower stall, no matter how much space it affords, is not the place for me to get carried away with such an action. It is easy for one to curb an addiction one has never partaken in.”

“But earlier, you could have. Twice. We weren’t in the shower then. Either time. You could have. And then—” Jim faltered, floundering. “... _Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.”_

And he tilted his chin to firmly press his lips to the corner of Spock’s mouth. Spock became a living statue and Jim waited a measure before withdrawing.

“Do not—” Spock squeezed him close with a growl. “—tempt me. Not while you are still too weak and my control is wavering.”

“‘Mnot weak,” Jim mumbled, even as his joints liquefied just to disprove him. _God damn,_ that growl _did things_ to him.

Spock clutched him close even as he leaned back to study Jim’s face with black eyes, blown pupils.

“You do not know,” he breathed. His volume increased to an angry snarl. “You do not realize just how I have been fortifying your waking moments with my own strength. You remain on your feet at this moment because it is only natural for a bondmate to provide when their bonded is lacking, to strengthen when weak, to create control when chaos threatens to splinter it, to cool when one burns. You cannot tempt me so, when already I am stretched thin attending to you and if my control broke I would—” He inhaled sharply and released it with an audible _whoosh._ “...I would only hurt you.”

His hands gripped Jim’s hips, tightly, too tightly, bruisingly. He was trying to prove a point. But Jim gasped, his hands dropping to Spock’s wrists and clawing futilely at them. He couldn’t have stopped the way all his blood rushed south even if he had somehow gained the ability to control every cell in his body. His nails raked down Spock’s forearms. Jim’s blood was on fire.

“Spock!” He choked, as a sudden, dizzying wave of  ~~arousal~~    ~~exhaustion~~   arousal washed through him and his fingers went lax, his head dropped back. Only Spock’s grip, his body there for Jim to collapse against, kept him from slipping down to the floor of the shower.

Jim’s head rolled forward onto Spock’s shoulder and he whimpered. It was way too early in this encounter to be whimpering. Jim Kirk didn’t whimper until either he was balls deep or had someone in him balls deep and the sex was _shrieking_ good.

“Do you understand? I would not be content to have you once, in one way, not when you are finally mine.” Spock’s lips were at his ear, voice gravely and rich, insidious. Jim felt a fine tremor in his core, as though he were a plucked harp string. “And you are not fit for such...activity.”

“Do it,” Jim gasped. “Want that. Want _you_ , Spock. I don’t care how. Just fuck me. I’m giving you permission. I want you. You’ve taken care of me, now reward yourself and _fuck_ me.”

Spock growled so viciously Jim actually flinched.

His hands dropped to Jim’s ass and he gripped each buttock tightly to haul Jim’s lower half up against his. Jim’s lips parted but not even a squeak of breath could escape him.

“I would not have you _demean_ our coupling by speaking of it as though it were a transaction, your self a mere prize for a labor I gave freely. You are my t’hy’la and to speak of yourself in such a way is not only an insult unto you but of me as well.”

Jim laughed incredulously. He was euphoric, horny, tingly all over.

“Spock, fucking hell, how are you real?” He laughed again, breathier. His trembling hands found the back of Spock’s head and his fingers carded through water-slicked locks.

“You’re kind of unintentionally pressing a lot of buttons, there.” Jim took a deep breath, tried valiantly to reorder his thoughts. “...I’m here. I’m willing. More than! I’m _wanting_. I’m close to _downright needy_. Spock, you...mean a lot to me. I trust you, okay.”

He willed Spock to understand, pulled to the surface of his mind thoughts of wanting to provide pleasure for Spock, for Spock to find pleasure with him, not out of misguided gratitude or altruism, but because _he_ selfishly wanted it. Wanted to see Spock undone because of him, wanted to feel it, wanted to be the reason for it. Wanted to be the only one to see it ever again.

Jim kissed the point of the sage-colored ear nearest his mouth and whispered into it.

“I _trust_ you.”

Spock’s whole body vibrated, every tense muscle tightening further, like an eager predator ready to pounce. He bared his teeth and set them to the curve of Jim’s shoulder. There was a low rumble deep in his chest.

Jim’s cock throbbed.

Then Spock took a deep, drawn-out breath and nuzzled Jim’s neck, physically deflating. He took several more before his bruising grip loosened and he straightened back up. His hooded, glittery gaze pinned Jim.

“I will wash you and take you to bed,” he said and it sounded more like an order aimed at Jim than a statement.

“And we’ll have sex?” Jim asked hopefully, playfully giving him his best pouty look.

“We’ll see,” Spock said magnanimously, microexpressions carefully being subdued until he looked more like Jim’s First Officer Spock than what he had become over course of the last week.

Jim just smiled indulgently at him.

It turned out that Spock’s idea of washing Jim was a whole _process_ that involved _a lot_ of work. Way more work than Jim used on himself. And Jim wasn’t even allowed to help. The only thing he was able to wash was his face. But only after Spock had done his hair.

Spock used Jim’s hair cleanser and massaged the soapy substance into his short locks, gently combing his fingers through Jim’s hair. He tugged softly on the longer strands and scritched his fingernails over Jim’s scalp to create the lightest tingling sensation Jim had ever felt. Like happiness as a physical sensation. Only all of it centered on his head. It made all of Jim’s muscles turn to goo and he slouched into Spock. When it came time to rinse the fine lather away, Spock cradled the back of his neck as he tipped his head into the spray.

Jim was then handed his laser razor to pass over his face and remove the little bit of stubble that had grown out while he was ill. After the minute it took to finish, he was given his facial scrub and turned to face the showerhead so that while he worked on exfoliating Spock could wash his back. And he did. With soap-slick hands he started at the base of Jim’s skull and worked downward, rubbing every inch of Jim’s back with dexterous, strong fingers that he dug wonderfully into Jim’s flesh. If Jim hadn’t been so preoccupied with not getting soap into his eyes or mouth he might’ve let himself relax into it, become putty.

Just - fucking - collapsed.

As it was, Spock stopped at his lower back, just where the muscles slightly dimpled right above the swell of his ass, and pulled away. Jim scrubbed down his throat and had just tipped his face into the hot spray to finish when Spock’s hands returned to his skin. If it hadn’t been for his body’s reaction to curl forward, drop his chin, Jim would have inhaled soapy water.

Spock’s hands touched - feather-light - over his hips on a decisive slide around Jim’s body where his hot (still-so-fucking-hot) hands settled with fingers dangerously close to his dick. Jim flailed for the shower wall, bracing against it and gasping as water poured down the sides of his face from the back of his head. Spock was hovering at his backside, but not touching, the tease.

Jim scrubbed with one hand at his face, trying to remove all of the facewash as quick as possible. Spock’s hands slid upward, over his abs making them twitch, and pulled him up, until he was leaning back into Spock, face once more tipped into the spray. Jim squeezed his eyes shut and let the water rinse over him before he figured he was good and leaned back fully into the Vulcan behind him. Something small and rigid nudged against his ass and Jim hoped that it was Spock’s cock showing interest in the proceedings, and he really hoped that it if it was, Spock was a grower.

One of Spock’s hands left his chest only to return slick with soap as Spock gave Jim’s front the same treatment as his back, digging into the muscles of his chest and ribs, dancing over his sides and stomach but pressing just enough to feel _so good_ Jim had trouble breathing. Jim had tipped his head back onto Spock’s shoulder and he was moaning lowly, one hand still pressed to the shower wall and the other holding onto the back of Spock’s neck.

“Spock,” he groaned when Spock’s fingers didn’t stop at his lower abdomen, following the muscled vee of his hips and the swell under his navel until there were dexterous, soft, psi-sensitive fingers rubbing circles through his pubic hair and along the creases of his groin. Jim gasped, loudly, when Spock cupped his balls with one hand to soap them up while the other circled the base of his cock and gave one, firm, slow stroke to the tip.

Jim’s breath caught.

Then both hands were on it, rubbing over it almost curiously, pulling his foreskin all the way up over the head of his cock before rolling it back down and of course, Spock made sure he was _thoroughly_ clean there with his thumb and two fingers delicately caressing the head.

And Jim must’ve telegraphed something or Spock could just pick up on it with his insane Vulcan touch telepathy, because - like a real asshole - he rolled his palm over the exposed head. Jim arched up onto his toes like he’d been electrocuted and he was pretty sure his belly actually went concave with the wordless shout that left him. He trembled and when Spock gasped quietly right next to his ear and Jim glanced to the side to see him staring over Jim’s shoulder, down Jim’s body— Well, Jim’s legs went all marshmallowy.

Spock’s lips were parted and his cheeks had a high flush of jade across them. His eyes were wide and _fascinated_ , like he’d just had a revelation. Jim was pretty sure he’d never felt more aroused in his life and he squirmed his ass back against Spock, against that _larger_ , rigid nub that was now nudging his tailbone.

_Fuck. yesssss._

“Fuck me,” Jim breathed, tilting his head to mouth at Spock’s jaw.

Whatever trance Spock had been in broke because he blinked and eased Jim away from him with hands on his hips, coaxing Jim around so his back was once more in the spray.

“I have not finished washing you,” he murmured, tugging Jim’s arm up between them, giving it a barely-more-than perfunctory rub down with body wash before switching for the other arm. Jim smiled coyly. No matter how hard Spock tried to suppress it, he was getting impatient. And maybe, if Jim could press the right buttons, Spock might just be persuaded to forget about the bed and abandon his mission to wash every inch of Jim and instead screw him up against the shower wall. Vulcans were something like three times stronger than the average human. Spock could _easily_ do it. And Jim was _all_ for that.

“It will not work,” Spock stated and pressed, hard, with his thumb into the center of Jim’s hand. Jim grunted, not sure if it was supposed to hurt in reprimand or just feel good but he was definitely getting both. It was a good hurt and who the fuck knew hand massages could be so great?

Spock dragged two fingers, his first two fingers (that had been on his dick like that holy fuck did that count as Spock kissing his dick!?!!), down Jim’s palm and to the tips of Jim’s own fingers.

Jim let out a shivery exhale.

He reached with his free hand for Spock’s belly, smoothing his palm over the trail of thick hair there, down, aiming for-

Spock snatched up his hand and, as Jim stared into his unfathomably dark eyes, he placed it on his shoulder, taking the other one up to mirror it and sinking down to a knee in front of Jim. A shiver was just barely suppressed by Jim swallowing hard.

“No, my Jim,” Spock said, hooking one hand behind Jim’s knee and lifting it to rest Jim’s foot on his thigh. Jim stared wide-eyed at him.

“This is about your needs.”

Then he was reaching for the dispenser on the wall for more soap and taking up his deep massage again, working from the foot up, until Jim was wobbly and aroused and blissed out of his mind.

“Spock,” he protested with a groan as deft fingers approached the top of his thigh, working into the lines of muscles and creeping higher with each sweep. “That’s not how this works. C’mon, I haven’t even fully seen you yet. Let me do _something_. I want to make you feel good, too.”

“T’hy’la,” Spock breathed, against the inside of Jim’s raised thigh, sending waves of goosebumps down the backs of Jim’s arms. “You have been unwell. You are still not fully well. Your arousal and your impatience cloud your judgment, trick you into believing yourself fit. You please me by allowing me to care for you.”

Spock’s hand blazed up the back of his thigh and grabbed a firm handful of Jim’s ass. He slanted a _commanding_ look up at Jim from beneath hooded lids.

“Continue doing so and you will _‘make me feel good, too.’_ ”

“Please,” Jim breathed, trying hard not to focus on how close Spock’s little finger was to his hole. He wasn’t even sure exactly what he was asking for, just that he _needed_ it. He was a jumble of stimulated nerves and half-formed desires.

Spock didn’t respond verbally.

He dragged his hand down the back of Jim’s thigh to the crook of his knee and carefully lowered Jim’s leg before switching knees to give Jim’s other leg the same treatment. By the time Spock’s hands were kneading into the top of Jim’s other thigh he was shuddering intermittently with anticipation and pleasure, barely holding himself up as a shield against the spray of the shower. And when Spock groped his butt with one hand again, Jim pressed eagerly into it.

He wasn’t prepared for the way Spock shoved his free hand between Jim’s cheeks, rubbing his finger over Jim’s hole in a rocking motion with his thumb hooked over Jim’s taint, pressing in such a way that suddenly had heat blazing through his belly. Sparks. Achy, weird, tight pleasure writhing around in his gut for attention.

Jim threw his head back, gasping in the thick steam surrounding them. His fingers curled into claws on Spock’s shoulders as he held on for dear life.

_‘Oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me— fucking— fuck!’_

Spock was rising to his feet too-soon and, at first, Jim was fucking ecstatic because ‘ _hell yeah, next stop, bed’_  but then Spock was reaching for something else held on a shelf in the shower and ‘ _no no nononono_ _what was he_ _**doing**?’_

He rubbed something fragrant and heady between his palms before combing his fingers through Jim’s hair. And, okay, it felt good and smelled even better, but _come on!_ Jim thought they were done. It was time to move _on!_

Spock’s eyes twinkled - _bastard!_ \- when Jim caught them. He was eating it up. His hands burned against Jim’s skin as he rubbed oil into it, and he was laughing - on the inside - at Jim. And Jim—

—

Jim recognized that scent. It was familiar and good and made him feel comfortably loose. It also fed his libido like dry logs on a fire.

“What is that stuff?” he asked. He slurred. Fucking hell, he sounded fuck drunk without even having to fuck. He was going to die tonight and he would be absolutely ecstatic about it. Ascended-to-higher-planes-of-existence ecstatic.

Hands paused in their ministrations and Spock’s lips twitched upwards in the corners.

“Oils. It is not uncommon among Vulcans to use them for fragrance and health, not unlike how humans utilize them. In fact, my mother was fond of many and I have even developed a preference for some terran oils.” Spock explained and continued his caressing of every inch of Jim’s skin, lightly rubbing the oil into him. “This a personal blend. My skin is more prone to drying due to my human heritage. Also, it is customary for those from prominent clans to use specific, rare oils as...status markers. Vulcans can be quite obsessed with status, though many would like to believe the contrary.”

Jim’s breath stuttered into his lungs when he realized what that meant.

“You’re scent marking me?” He asked but it wasn’t really a question. Not with the way Spock’s gaze held his. He uttered not a single word. A bolt of white-hot arousal shot through Jim and he felt like the ship had lurched beneath his feet.

Spock’s fingers slid down his crack and oil was rubbed into his skin, in measured circles against the quivering pucker there in a way that had Jim squirming his hips back into the touch.

The rest of the shower passed in a blur for Jim. Under Spock’s dancing fingers he fell into a haze as first, his skin began to numb under the assault, before coming online in _painful_ waves of sensation. His skin goosepimpled everywhere as muscles twitched under each pass of Spock’s fingertips. Muscles that weren’t even in the area Spock touched him. Spock caressed his thigh and a muscle in his arm shivered. It felt great and awful and amazing and—

When Spock cut off the water and activated the dryer above the stall, Jim flinched at the initial blast of cooler air as the buzzing under his skin was met with a full-body hit of pins-and-needles. His brain momentarily screeched to a halt as he tried to process it.

Spock reeled him in close, continuing his maddening, feather-light brushing until Jim was once again suffused with warmth and his skin was hitting a confusing level of sensitivity. Every touch felt like ice-prick-fire webbing out from every contact point. He couldn’t decide at all whether he liked it or not. More confusing than Spock’s touches were the absence of them. When Spock ceased the movements of his fingers, Jim’s skin _hurt_ , like a sharp itch he couldn’t scratch. The only thing he could think about was a firmer touch, the hot press of skin chasing away the pin-prick _itchy_ painful _teasing_ good-wrong crawling across his nerves.

He _craved_ the way Spock had squeezed his hips, had dug his fingers deep in Jim’s flesh, had claimed him with the spread of his gripping fingers and palms.

He had to have more or he’s buzz apart into thousands of atoms that couldn’t hold together, couldn’t _bond_.

Spock seemed to understand that he was coming apart at the seams because he tugged Jim gently out of the shower stall, Jim stumbling and wobbling into his arms, and then he was lifting Jim up, hands at the back of Jim’s thighs like no one had been able to do since he was a skinny-as-fuck twinky nineteen-year-old. Jim’s painfully hard cock was snugged between their stomachs, and he felt something cock-like rubbing at the underside of his ass. The anticipation was strangling and he tried - _tried_ \- to resist humping Spock’s lightly furred stomach. Only that was a lie because he had eagerly draped himself against Spock and began twitching his hips forward as soon as Spock had lifted him.

Spock inhaled sharply through his nose and the transition from fresher to quarters was made quickly. Jim expected his back to hit the mattress with a bounce and for Spock to be on him like an animal unleashed. He was pleasantly surprised when Spock crawled onto the bed and instead gently lowered down to crush Jim between it and his body. Jim’s legs twitched around Spock and they both released stuttering breaths. Jim tightened his legs, gripped Spock closer, canted his hips to feel—

Spock shot up, breaking his grip, and Jim’s arms were left hovering in the air between them. Spock was staring down at him, pained and wanting, raking his gaze over Jim like a starving man denied a meal at a feast. Jim reached for his hands where they rested delicately on the peaks of Jim’s bent knees. Spock flinched.

“I cannot,” he grit out and Jim frowned.

“Spock—”

“You do not understand,” Spock rasped and Jim couldn’t help the way he shivered.

Spock reached for his face, thumb and forefinger falling to two of Jim’s psi-points.

“My control—”

 _...wavering, tenuous, like a soap bubble expanding until the film of fluid was too thin to hold, spock’s barriers were so much weaker than he felt they had ever been. there was too much at risk this time around. he held everything there in that bubble deep inside, desperate not to break, not again, shameshame, he could not bear if— rejection— exile— pain— so he lived and felt in all the neatly ordered spaces around that bubble that he was woefully lacking, cold,_ **_unfulfilled,_ ** **_empty_ ** **_._ ** _.._

“And you, my Jim, are—”

_...weak, precious, exhausted, unwell, a gift, breakable..._

“—unfit in your current state.”

He dragged his fingers down Jim’s face, down his neck in a burning caress, and Jim arched into it with a raspy gasp.

He melted. His body went boneless, his extremities tingled and loosened, arms dropped onto the bed to either side, legs falling open. His brain became mush. His next series of breaths were heavy pants that heaved his chest up only for it to collapse under the weight of itself and force each exhale out.

“Spock? What-?” Jim ground out, confused about how he went from fine to this so quickly.

Spock dropped himself back over Jim’s body, braced on palms pressed to either side of Jim’s shoulders.

“This is what you are without my bolstering,” he rasped. “ _Weak. Tired. ...Flagging._ ”

And Spock reached down to drag the edge of a fingernail up Jim’s shrinking cock. It gave a valiant twitch at the stimulation.

Okay sure, but—

Jim still felt that achy, tight, warm crawl of arousal everywhere. It wouldn’t be the first time  
(nor hopefully the last) that he had fucked in some kind of altered state. Spock being as strong as he was already opened up so many options Jim had kissed goodbye when he hit an unexpected growth spurt and suddenly filled out. Manhandling had its own appeals.

Now. Like this. Horny and lethargic, needy and frail? There was a slow simmer low in his gut at the idea of Spock twisting and shoving his _weak_ body around and fucking him - deep or shallow, fast or slow, gentle or rough... It wouldn’t matter because they’d both be getting what they wanted, needed from the other.

Jim’s dick might be only half-interested in the proceedings but that was an easy remedy and negligible in the face of how deeply Jim desired Spock.

If their faces hadn’t been so close, if Jim hadn’t been staring intently into Spock’s dark, blown gaze, he might’ve missed the way Spock’s secondary eyelids flickered and his nose flared at the same time.

_...pliant. my jim, my james, my t’hy’la, sa-kugalsu t'nash-veh, mine mine smells like me, smells like mine, want want need to taste to touch to consume to never stop..._

Spock’s tremble was full-bodied and shook Jim, physically, mentally.

“C’mere, Spock, please, come here,” Jim pleaded, mustering up the strength to hold his arms up and out. Spock huffed and all but collapsed against Jim, blanketing him with his form, dropping his weight comfortably into the cradle of Jim’s hips. Jim mouthed at the spot below the lobe of one pointed ear, wrapped his arms around Spock’s neck and shoulders, twisted his hips and squirmed until he felt the line of Spock’s hot, hard cock against his, cradled on his belly. Spock trembled.

“I feel…” Jim choked, mouthed the words wetly over Spock’s smooth skin (so smooth and soft, free of any stubble).

_‘Feel me, Spock. I feel ~~the same~~   ~~no~~  similar. Opposite. I’m so full I could burst, so stretched I could snap, so hedonistically overmuch except—’ _

_Except deep down where he had grown around the void he was born in, had brought it home with him, let it expand and take over, swallow him until he tasted indulgence and fed that, padded the space around the void until he was packed tight and hollowed in the center._

Spock gave a choked sob and curled tight into, around, Jim.

 _He would never be free of it, no matter how it had shrunk in recent years. And he was terrified of it, the consuming and raw power of it, but he would never,_ **_never_** _, let it scare him away from what he wanted. Oh, how he wanted. Wanted—_

_‘Spock.’_

“What are you afraid of?” Jim gasped and pressed his hips up into Spock. “I want you, I want this. You’re not going to break me.”

Spock rocked into him, chasing the pleasure building between them. He gasped wetly into Jim’s ear, a fine tremor traveling up his arms, down his spine.

_...rejection, not enough, never enough, shameshame, too human, too vulcan, unwanted, undesirable..._

“You,” Spock choked out, voice gravely and muffled where he’d tucked his face into Jim’s neck. “Are everything to me. You are my t’hy’la.”

Now that they’d started up their lazy frotting, neither of them could seem to stop.

“The elders did not believe my mind capable of maintaining a bond, beyond my familial ones which had been formed in utero. I was not bonded until I had completed the kahs-wan because no parent of any of my potential bondmates thought me able enough. I fought to prove myself and still it had dissolved before we concluded our schooling. Healers could not understand why. They examined my mind and decided if I were to ever be able to keep a Vulcan mate it would require special training and diligent work to maintain the bond.”

Spock faltered and squeezed Jim closer, heat and slick building between them and Jim held on tight, feeling as though if he didn’t Spock would withdraw again, leaving him built up and shaky, achy, like he’d tried so many times.

“They never examined T’Pring’s mind. Never saw how she let it fall apart, refused to meld with me after the ceremony, or even simply befriend me. No. They judged me unfit. And perhaps my mind did require extended effort to maintain a bond but why should any of them care to examine deeper, to discover the truth, when none of them condoned my parentage, my hybrid status - thought me unfit. I would never have known otherwise without you.”

Jim’s breath hitched at a particularly dirty glide against his cock from Spock’s rougher thrust against him. The slick between them was so thick it began to leak down Jim’s sides to the sheets below. With all his focus stolen between the barely functioning two braincells he had, nobody could blame him for not realizing before that moment that it was coming from Spock, spilling copiously all over his stomach and rubbing into Spock’s hirsute belly.

It was a burning shock of a realization.

Jim did that. Jim caused this. Was wanted that much. He was covered in it. 

“T’hy’la,” Spock breathed reverently. “Here you are, with a mind so compatible with my own it feels as though we were made to compliment one another. You are so precious and perfect, everything I was denied. I feel a rooted need to claim every cell of your existence, and yet, I cannot touch you without feeling—” ... _shamefearaweterror..._ “There is nothing in this universe worth more...”

“Don’t-!” Jim felt strangled, suffocated. “Don’t put me on a pedestal like that. I’m just human.”

“T’hy’la,” Spock whispered with a little nuzzle. “Jim, you are a gift.”

Jim shivered.

“Only to- for you,” he murmured and pressed his nose into Spock’s hair, mussing it up.

He clutched at Spock’s shoulder, scrabbled at Spock’s lower back for something to hold onto and found it with a handful of flexing buttock. His dick was back to being completely interested as pleasure fizzled through him, and his ass clenched at the thought of how _easy_ it would be to tilt his hips, lever his body up _just so_ and have Spock sliding right in.

Spock growled and shoved him harder down into the mattress.

His answering moan was cut off when Spock shook him off and wiggled out of his hold, which Jim immediately tried to fight because _‘hell no’_  was he letting Spock pull this shit again. He just ended up moaning more as his wrists were caught and pinned to the bed while Spock’s lips found his neck, mouthing roughly, desperately down it in a burning slide. He left a trail of sporadic, sucking kisses down Jim's chest, moving as far as he could until he had to release Jim's arms, smearing his hot mouth through his own slick coating Jim's belly. His hands gripped Jim's hipbones like handles and Jim clutched at his hair, head, breathlessly anticipating the wet slide of his mouth over Jim’s cock.

His breath was punched out of him when his bottom half was hauled up, curling him nearly in half, confusing and momentarily disorienting him. Jim's knees were hooked over Spock’s shoulders with Spock's arms curled under his legs and his hands gripping Jim's inner thighs. Spock waited only the half of a second it took for Jim to meet his gaze, shocked, before he was shoving his mouth between Jim’s asscheeks.

The first hot puff of air, first filthy-wet glide of his velvet-rough tongue, had Jim slamming his head back into the mattress, mouth falling open. 

The second slow, indulgent lap across his hole started up a thick, dirty buzz of pleasure low in the cradle of hips. A third leisurely laving down his crack, across his hole and onto his taint, sent a jagged-lightening frisson of pleasure to the head of his dick. Jim panted and scrabbled for a hold in the sheets above his head. He felt the burn of a flush creep up his neck and bloom across the bridge of nose. The last thing he ever expected to happen in his life was his meticulous, neat, so-well-put-together Vulcan XO to be sloppily eating him out while making low, happy-growly grunts of satisfaction that had Jim feeling lightheaded.

He mewled unashamedly when Spock’s tongue twisted and pushed at his fluttering hole, working him open, holding him open. An idea occurred to him, an image flashed through his mind, and he groaned. Spock's coppery, green-tinged tongue buried in his dusky, pink hole while Jim was _helpless_. What a picture they'd make. He couldn’t even move his arms from over his head, pinned as he was.

Spock continued to drill his tongue into Jim’s ass, interspersing strokes in with undulating curls around the rim until Jim was straining against him and his cock was leaking all over his belly, dripping viscous precum down onto his chest.

“Spock!” Jim moaned, unable to even thrash against the swell of _burningbrightgood_ spreading outward from his gut. His fingers tingled, his toes curled, and his head went fuzzy-light. Spock rumbled, spearing his tongue deep, deeper. Jim shouted, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wished he could rock down (up?) onto Spock’s tongue. Arms shaking with strain, his breaths sawed out of him and he dazedly wondered if he could still come from having his ass expertly tongued, because he was pretty sure that answer was yes.

Yes, he abso-fucking-lutely was _going_ to.

Spock abruptly pulled away from his ass with a lewd slurping noise and sat back, unintentionally dragging Jim across the bed. Or intentionally, as Jim forced his eyes open to find Spock staring at him with hooded, animalistic intensity, eyes black. The bottom half of his face was shiny with spit and his own slick, and he was panting heavily, hair in complete disarray.

Something clenched under Jim’s ribs.

With a predatory grace Jim rarely glimpsed from his friend, Spock slipped Jim’s legs down from over his shoulders with a little shake and secured them around his waist instead so Jim’s ass was propped in his lap, legs splayed open around him. He canted his hips and Jim felt a nudge at his taint that left behind a thick, wet smear. The next nudge was at the loosened rim of his asshole.

Jim swallowed tightly and dropped his gaze to try and see what Spock was packing. (He couldn’t believe he was about to have Spock’s dick inside him and he hadn’t even _seen_ it yet.) The angle of his own body and the curve of his cock across his lower belly impeded his line of sight. He barely got a glimpse of something thick, slick-shined, and flushed verdigris before it was _pressing_ into him.

The stretch burned in the best way possible and Jim tried to relax into it. But Spock had barely pushed in the tip before he was pulling out. A chill of fear lanced through Jim’s chest and his ass tightened around the head of Spock’s cock, trying to keep him inside.

“No, no, Spock, please, I can take it, please,” he babbled breathlessly, reaching with one hand for Spock’s where it gripped the inside of his thigh near his groin. “Want this, want it so bad, want you so much it scares me. Please!  _Please._ ”

Spock pressed in again. Jim’s hole reflexively clenched around him, thirsty. He grabbed the back of Spock’s hand, held his breath.

Spock withdrew again as soon as Jim felt the slightest twinge of what might have been somewhere near pain if Jim had felt it for longer than a millisecond.

Jim groaned and tried to follow with his hips.

Spock moving his hand to the swell of muscle under Jim’s navel kept him still and Jim only had those few moments to feel frustrated - sofucking horny, sofucking tired - before Spock was pushing in again.

Oh.

Just. A little. Deeper.

_Oh..._

Jim burned as he realized exactly what Spock was doing. He was fucking him open, shallowly fucking Jim open around his cock, slowly making him take it (millimeter by millimeter), feel every inch pressed just a little further into him. Jim’s cock jumped. He groaned deep in his chest.

He himself had done the exact same thing to others, reveling in the satisfaction of getting someone to fall apart just from taking his cock, string them out until they were shaking. (Like Jim.) And he could feel the high, the cool wash, of that gratification emanating from Spock now.

_...that’s it, t’hy’la. so beautiful, opening up for me..._

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and flushed down to his navel, pleasure twining up around his spine.

Spock changed his angle and _ohhhhh,_ a moan was dragged up, gutturally, from Jim. Something rough dragged and caught on his rim, made him jerk and shiver. Spock thrust in at the same angle and the feeling was less intense, but still way more than Jim was ready to handle as he panted raggedly.

“I will take care of you, t’hy’la,” Spock reassured, tipping his hips back to drag his cock free of Jim’s hole. Jim remembered then (fuck, how could he have forgotten) that Spock could see inside his head, feel what he felt, and a part of him balked so hard it flung itself into the deepest crevasses of his mind.

_...letting me see, only for me, my jim. k’hat’n’dlawa. k’hat’n’dlawa t'nash-veh. k’diwa. mine, my body to please, my mind to touch, mine to protect, mine to desire, my james, my t’hy’la, t'nash-veh..._

The rest of him was hyperfocused on the slow pressure of Spock sinking his cock slowly back into him.

And this time he kept going, when Jim felt stretched too wide, when it was too much, when it burned and burned through him like he might not actually be able to accept all of Spock into his body. It was one dauntless plunge and then Jim made it past the thickest part, the last few centimeters sinking in easy. Spock had bottomed out.

Jim’s eyes rolled back and his ass clamped down, compulsively milking Spock’s cock buried in him. He was full, _sofuckingfull_. He gulped down air. He couldn’t breathe. He squirmed, ground down in tight, restless circles, relished the way Spock’s dick shifted inside him. Gagging for it.

No matter what he did, it wouldn’t be enough. Stimulating, good, electrifying, teasing— it wouldn’t get him off. And he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t reverse their positions, couldn’t take his pleasure, wasn’t in _control_ of it, was _too weak_ to be. He had to _rely_ on Spock for it. He could barely move at all from the way he was draped across Spock's lap.

It was sublime.

He let out a long, drawn, shivery  ~~moan~~    ~~whine~~   _keen_ \- heard Spock’s breath hitch.

“Jim,” Spock gasped tightly. _...t’hy’la..._

His reverence filled Jim with a blooming warmth that scared him, had him suddenly wishing he could wrench away, hide, cover every cracked, vulnerable chink in his armor.

Spock was _right there_ , though, leaning forward over him, pulling a strangled little sound from Jim with the shift. They stared at one another for a beat, Jim’s heart thumping it painfully against his sternum.

Jim gave a startled grunt at suddenly finding Spock’s warm, wet lips against his. He held his breath. Spock was kissing him.

 _Finally_ kissing him.

Cheeks and chin streaked with slick and spit still, the secret romantic part of Jim that had _hoped (just a tiny bit)_ died a little at the thought that _this_ was their first kiss.

His fingers carded through Spock’s glossy, tangled locks and curled into them for fragile purchase. He nudged Spock’s lips open with his own and Spock _snatched up_ the invitation. The part of Jim that had his blood boiling and his ass _squeezing_ around Spock’s cock was squealing delightedly that _this_ was their first kiss.

_Filthy with the musk of Jim’s ass and a softer tang that had to be Spock’s cock slick._

Spock kissed him like he ate Jim out: _hungrily_.

It was with a single-minded determination, licking deeply into Jim’s mouth until Jim was desperately sucking in air every second they were parted, drunk on the sticky slide of Spock’s lips over his, the wet-velvet curl of his tongue, the methodical-yet-brutal way he tongue-fucked Jim’s mouth and swallowed down every whimpery whine Jim gave him. Jim tried to keep up, but (truly) he was not anywhere near his usual levels of coordination. And Spock hadn’t been lying when he had told Jim that once he started he would not be able to stop.

His hands pried Jim’s from his hair and clasped their fingers together, pressing Jim’s to the mattress as he began to almost subconsciously undulate his hips. Jim whimpered in the back of his throat and something light and gentle and _muzzysweetfuzzy_ unfurled in his chest.

He tried to break from the kiss, catch his breath, as his head began to feel way too light to be safe. Needed to focus, to gather himself back together from where he was blurring at the edges.

Spock relentlessly followed him, nudging him back, releasing a hand to hold him in place, nipping and sucking at his lips until they were stinging with sensation, swollen. It was overwhelming in the best way as all Jim could do was make muffled, incoherent noise and submit to it, retaliate by treating the bow of Spock’s lip to the same sweet torture until it was more coppery-green than his bottom lip. 

Jim was lost.

The way Spock sweetly brushed their mouths together between deep twinings of their tongues, the gentle caresses to the side of his face, the forceful grip on his jaw when he tried to turn away and Spock wasn’t done with him yet. Jim loved every second of it, even as he pushed up against Spock, fought against his lead, tested his hold even as he reveled in it.

They kissed until Jim’s jaw was aching and he had spots drifting in his vision when he opened his eyes, until his mouth was as filthy-wet as Spock’s and his spine was tingling up and down, small zips of pleasure twisting their way through his nerves.

Finally, Spock let him breathe. (Gasp, pant, wheeze...) He mouthed all across Jim’s jaw and down his neck and along the line of his collarbone as Jim tipped his head back to gulp down air.

In lieu of kissing with their mouths, Spock took to dragging his psi-sensitive fingertips over every inch of Jim’s responsive skin (again), paying close attention to his palms and even reaching up with one hand to trace Jim’s gaping mouth with two delicate fingers. Jim couldn’t help dazedly reaching out with his tongue to give one a curious lick. Spock's breath caught on a sharp inhale.

The thought had barely occurred to Jim before Spock was following it through.

Two fingers were shoved into his mouth and dragged out down the length of his eager tongue. He tried to curl it around the tips as they retreated but needn’t have worried as Spock let him take them in again, suckle loudly around them, pulse his tongue over the pads and wiggle between them. Spock held very still, nothing on him moving except his chest for each shallow breath and his fingers barely thrusting between Jim’s puffy, eager lips. His dark eyes watched his fingers in Jim’s mouth with rapt attention and Jim wondered if this was arousing enough, or if Spock was thinking of Jim’s mouth around his cock.

Spock jerked his fingers free and crushed Jim to him for another sucking, devouring kiss. Jim clung to him like he was a lifeline as his tongue was erotically suckled.

“Alright, big guy,” he rasped once his mouth was free enough for it. “C’mon. Fuck me. Been needing this for hours now.”

_...not like this..._

Spock growled and pulled away, pulled out of him.

Which was _so not_ _okay_. It left Jim _distressingly empty_. He had gotten used to Spock’s thick cock nestled in him. The sudden retreat, the tugging, had the rim of his ass stretching uncomfortably wide around the fattest part of Spock's cock. He hissed from the sharp sting, tried to compulsively close his legs around the _ow_ of it. And holy fuck, he had not realized just how ridiculously slick his ass, his groin, the creases of his thighs were from Spock leaking all over him.

Spock wasn’t having it.

With a snarl, he knocked Jim’s legs back open and was gripping Jim’s ribs hard enough to bruise before yanking him up off the mattress and right into his lap. Jim threw his arms over Spock’s shoulders and there was a moment where their cocks dragged deliciously together, smooshed between their pelvises. Then Spock’s hands were under his ass, lifting him up spreading both of their kneeling legs and Jim’s slicked asscheeks.

Jim felt the drag and catch of Spock’s cockhead on his softened rim before gravity was taking over and he felt every inch, felt the impossible heat of it, felt _and heard_ the soft squelch from all of Spock’s natural lubrication gathered between them. His toes curled and his legs trembled. It was scorching as it split him open _(again)_ , overwhelmed him _(again)_. It felt like suspended eternity.

And then Jim was seated, feeling Spock deep (impossibly deep), feeling full, fuller, like every spare centimeter was crammed into him. He spit curses and held onto Spock for dear life as his ass tightened right up around the rod of scorching heat shoved up it. (And how the fucking-fuck did he feel so much bigger at this angle?)

Spock was purring, a deep rumble that traveled through his chest, low into his gut and did not at all fucking help Jim as he tried to gain control of the rhythmic, involuntary clench of his hole. His own cock was squished between their heaving stomachs since whatever thread Spock had been holding onto had snapped and he was pawing bruisingly, roughly at Jim’s butt, back, legs, like he couldn’t drag their bodies close enough.

He finally settled with a hand clenched around one asscheek and the other gripping the sweaty hair at the crown of Jim’s hair. He snarled.

Then they were fucking - really, truly fucking. Spock easily manhandled Jim up and down his cock, setting his teeth and tongue and lips to everything in reach - neck, jaw, shoulders, arms, chest. Jim yowled into the crook of his neck, whimpered into his hair, screamed _‘yes, yes, yes’_  because this, _this_ was exactly what he had wanted. He was going to be _aching_ with imprints of fingers and teeth and a sucking mouth. It started a tight roll of fire in his gut, made his stomach muscles jump and tremble. His whole body shivered and all he could do was limply drape himself against Spock, claw at his back, let Spock screw into him, carve out a place inside Jim for himself.

Spock growled loudly, deeply and their frantic, shallow fucking stopped. He twisted them around and Jim’s back was nearly slammed up against the bulkhead where his bed rested. One of Spock’s arms curled around the back of his neck. His other hand hooked under Jim’s knee to force it up and out, splaying Jim wide and using the rest of his body to pin Jim in place.

Jim couldn’t move. At all. He was stuck. Held open.

Spock’s cock was dragged out of him with a slow tilt of hips, all the way out so Jim could really appreciate just how bereft he felt without its thickness stuffed deep in him, filling him up. And then Spock thrust back in to the root. It punched a high, strangled noise out of Jim.

Spock took his sweet time fucking Jim like this, sandwiched up against the wall and held perfectly exposed and perfectly close for the slow, possessive, rolling pace he set. All Jim could do was babble and toss his head back and forth over Spock’s arm where it cradled his neck, incoherent and drowning. Pleasure ebbed and swelled through him, his body an earth tide and Spock's the moon.

He usually enjoyed some dirty talk to get him to the edge but when you’re already shivery with pleasure because the screw is _just that good_ and you have a direct feedback loop into your partner’s mind... Well, Jim didn’t exactly need it.

Not when instead he had over six feet of growly, strong, sexed-up Vulcan drilling his ass into a wall and he was tuned in to radio-Spock, broadcasting directly to him a constant of ... _yes, mine, taste, mark, mine, yes like that, give me, t’hy’la, precious, k’diwa, jim, so tight, so sweet, mine, james, your voice, your mind, your body, mine, for me..._

And he was a gasping, shaking mess of—

“Oh god, _Spock_ , _please_ , so good, don’t stop, pleasedon'tfuckingstop, _so good, almost—!”_

All at once, he was _right there_!

His toes curled and his legs vibrated from how tightly the muscles coiled along them. His spine tingled, a tangled and tightening mess of distracted signals at the base sending sparks dancing up to the base of his skull and down the backs of his thighs. His breath hitched as he anticipated the _whitehottight_ sweeping rollof orgasm to melt his mind.

It never came.

Spock sank deep into him and froze, chest heaving and breath burning too-hot across Jim’s sweat-slicked collarbone.

All at once, Jim’s whole body released its built-up tension and he wailed in disappointment. His eyes watered with frustration and he couldn’t hold back the sobby, shuddering breath that exploded from him.

He didn’t even have time to try to wrangle up half a coherent thought before Spock was there, mouth on his, kissing him sweet and slow, rumbling soothingly. Warmth and reassurance washed through him and Jim haltingly let himself go boneless in his bondmate’s hold. Everything in the cradle of his hips ached and his groin - his balls specifically - actually _hurt_. But Spock would take care of him.

He had promised.

And Jim had told him he trusted him.

Spock carefully sat back away from the wall, cuddling Jim close after a minor rearrangement, kissing him and suckling at his neck, collar area, lobes, lips - petting him until he was shivering only intermittently and his heart-rate had calmed again. Jim sighed heavily and nuzzled his damp face against Spock’s - cheek to cheek. He pressed his forehead - plastered with sweaty hair - to Spock’s temple, cheekbone, dropped his head to rest on Spock’s shoulder. He nipped with his lips at the side of Spock’s neck, giving a low whine of encouragement.

That was all it took, apparently.

With a little huff, Spock sat back, laid back. Jim was. . .draped along his front. His arms were gently guided up over Spock’s shoulders, elbows pressed into the mattress and fingers curling into the coverings. Spock hooked his thumbs into the creases of Jim’s groin up near his hips and dug his fingers into the back of Jim’s thighs, imprinting them. A trembling, weakness squirmed around in Jim’s gut, his pleasure center tightened, others parts of him clamped down.

_...yes, perfect. like this. this. close. perfect. good. perfect. yes..._

Spock’s breath was nowhere near steady as he used his hold on Jim to rock him in counterpoint to the way he undulated his own body. Jim puffed harsh, heavy breaths into the damp curve of Spock’s neck and murmured nonsense even he couldn’t understand as it fell from his lips. His mind was numbed to everything except the sensations coiling up within. His body burned, frissons of pleasure seizing his entire nervous system from curling toes tangled in bed sheets to scrabbling fingers digging into the comforter. And Spock’s body was so very hot against his, around his, lips smearing searing kisses growled against his shoulder, growls that rumbled through Jim’s own core.

So near the edge he was before being dragged back, even with the steadier, slower, shallower pace, it took mere minutes and Jim was back on the brink. There was just too much - the drag of Spock’s cock in and out of his aching-so-good asshole, the soft squelches and smacks of their coupling, the intense incense-y fire-wood-sand scent of Spock cloying in the back of his throat, the slick-hot-rough rub of his own cock in the sweltering space between their bellies, the puffs and growling groans in Jim’s ear, the way every inch of him felt wound up tight, ready, ready, so ready...

He was going to come.

His fingertips were going numb and his breath was sawing in and out of his roughened throat.

 _He was going to come_.

The muscles in his lower back clenched, his ass clenched, pulsed, his balls drew up tight and—

It was like touching exposed wires. Spock did _something_ and suddenly Jim was hit with a live feedback loop of jarring sensation.

Spock’s _brighthotredburningneed_ crashed into him and fed into his _tighthotsweetache_ and Jim lost his _goddamn fucking mind_.

His teeth clamped down and his jaw locked and maybe he shrieked. Maybe he howled. It was muffled against Spock's skin. For sure, he was gurgling and convulsing, practically thrashing as his cock twitched, spilling all over Spock’s hirsute stomach, brain fucking melting out his ears, throat raw and cheeks wet with more than sweat. Spock’s grip was nearly unbearable as he shoved himself as deep as he could get and ground his cock deeper, huffing and snarling. With what felt like a hard flick inside the space below his navel, heat spilled low into the cradle of Jim’s hips.

He keened quietly around his mouthful, ears burning. Filled up so full, marked inside and out, he reeked of human sweat and pheromones and sex and Vulcan slick and cum and Spockspockspock.

Jim drifted, letting the aftershocks sweep through him, ass twitching and groin pulling pleasantly with each one. His balls ached from the force of his orgasm and his cock was so hypersensitive that the rub of Spock’s wet body hair over the tip was too-much every time he shivered just a bit too hard.

Jim had just unlocked his jaw from around Spock’s shoulder when the Vulcan decided to slide free, gently lifting Jim off his softening cock which slipped out with an obscene squelch. Jim hissed at the stimulation to his raw hole. Then he was empty and gaping and clenching around nothing except the hot Vulcan semen literally dripping from his ass. He pressed his face into Spock's neck as his face flushed, hopefully for the last time that night.

He was exhausted. More exhausted. Beat, wasted, spent, done for, drained (literally). He was disgusting, plastered to Spock with a frankly appalling mixture of bodily fluids, and completely unwilling to even try to find a modicum of motivation to get up. Spock wasn’t helping by making little satisfied, content noises and petting up and down his back and sides. The fingers of one hand slid between his buttocks and pressed flat over his asshole.

Jim jumped and instinctively tried to squirm up away from it. Spock refused to let his hand be so easily dislodged, squeezing just tightly enough, and Jim gave up, too tired and uncaring to give a fuck. Besides, it was kinda...soothing. Possessive and filthy and smug... But... soothing. In a weird way. Jim felt less...vulnerable. Kind of.

“I would apologize,” Spock whispered hoarsely, sounding thoroughly  _abused_. “But I believe you are also partly to blame, and I find myself too satisfied with the outcome to care at the moment.”

Jim mumbled some kind of agreement and wiggled closer, nuzzling against Spock’s neck.

“Of course, Doctor McCoy will have to check you over—”

Jim whined loudly in protest and then promptly coughed. His own throat was also suitably abused. Which didn't make his case for not telling Bones. Bones was his best friend, and his doctor, had dealt with a lot of shit from him. But he did not, absolutely did not, need to know anything about this. Sure, Jim had no problems with getting Bones' help or, often, oversharing way too much information when it came to his ... _adventures,_ but Spock was different. Spock was Vulcan and this was. . .private, important.

Jim really didn't want Bones anywhere near him tomorrow but, well, it was going to happen anyway. Spock would make sure of it and, honestly, Jim understood where he was coming from.

They were still and silent long enough Jim began to doze. He roused only when Spock shifted and tugged at him, and even then it was only enough to realize that Spock was picking him up. He startled when he felt warm water hit them, sluicing away their mess. Then there was much grumbling and squirming as Spock’s fingers helped the process, especially when those diligent digits started in on his genitals. Which involved unsheathing his oversensitive glans from his foreskin and scraping cum from his sore asshole.

Jim dozed off again as they dried once more under the heated air from above before they relocated to Jim's quarters and he was grudgingly gulping down a glass of sweet juice that he found his hands were carefully folded around. When finished with that, he remained awake once placed back between (clean) sheets just long enough to curl up snugly against Spock’s back.

Between one breath and the next, he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No but seriously, fuck this chapter.
> 
> I'm going to assume y'all know the Vulcan words. If not, you know how to do the google.
> 
> Remember to check out the [Hell Website™](http://jadedfalling.tumblr.com) for more me and Star Trek crap (and a frankly disturbing amount of Chris Pine's face) (Seriously that man's face...) (Ugh!)
> 
>  **Edit:** OH MY GOD I'M GONNA CRY. I JUST SPENT TWO HOURS EDITING THIS IN DRAFTS, HIT SAVE, AND THEN WHEN I WAS CHECKING IT OVER, IT HADN'T SAVED MY EDITS! WHYYYYYY?!?!??!?!?! It's two a.m. and I have to shower still and I have work in the morning. Late morning, but still. *sobbing* It was so good and perfect and now I have to try and remember everything I fixed.
> 
>  **Edit 2:** UUUHGGGHOOOOHHHHHMMMYYYYYGOOOOODDDDD this chapter took like fucking days to edit because I was just so pissed off after the above happened. I've fucktuple-checked it for errors and grammar and flow but I can't look at it anymore so seriously, don't mention it if you see something wrong unless it's a glaring issue. Like so bad it kills the whole chapter for you, bad.
> 
> Please make me feel better and leave a comment. ONE MORE TO GO!!!


	21. The Big Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim confronts himself and lets Spock in. Bones is the best bro ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man guys, gals, and pals! It's the last chapter! WHut!?
> 
> And it only took a year to complete this thing that I thought was gonna just be a couple chapters of sick!fic! *laughs while crying* NyeheheheheheheH!
> 
> Happy new year! 2018! Crazy right. It took me for-fucking-ever to get this out because.... I don't even remember november.... December was crunch-time for presents (I crochet and that takes time) and then life went wrong for about a week and a half right before christmas, and I usually spend my time between christmas and new years floating in sea of dissociated self-hatred, anxiety, and depression. Right now I'm just tired all of the time. But I managed to finally sit my ass down, focus, and edit the shit out of this thing. Hopefully I didn't miss anything.
> 
> Tags have been updated. Allusions and discussion of violence, allusions to rape, and discussion of genocide (as per a tarsus story), and discussion of past-sex with a minor are ahead. But first, there's sex. More sex I mean. **PAY ATTENTION TO THE TAGS**
> 
> I listened to a lot of sad X Ambassadors songs while writing this (Shining, Torches, Unconsolable, Unsteady...) if you want a soundtrack. Also, Ben Kingsley is my vote for an AOS Kodos.
> 
> Enjoy 25K+ that is this last chapter of this fic.  
> <3

Jim was warm. Almost too warm. And thirsty.

He blinked his eyes open.

It took him a full thirty seconds to understand what he was seeing.

He was in bed and next to him, Spock was asleep on his back, one arm thrown out (tucked under Jim’s neck like additional support to the pillow under his head) and the other bent so his relaxed hand rested on his chest near his diaphragm. Near Jim’s hand.

Jim himself was half-curled on one side, the back of one hand resting on Spock’s bare chest - fingers curved toward his palm in comfortable relaxation. His other arm was tucked into the dip of his own waist and one leg was thrown casually over Spock’s shin, the arch of his foot gently tucked against the arch of Spock’s.

A clean sheet was bunched up and twisted around their hips, haphazardly providing barely any covering from belly-buttons to knees.

Jim wondered if he’d ever woken up so contentedly - so quietly, so slowly - in his life before that moment... If there had ever been easy mornings where he’d blinked awake and greeted the rising day with any kind of true happiness. He had to have. At some point, he had to have opened his eyes without a hangover, a blaring alarm, a red-alert, a general sense of dread or numbness, an ache or pain or pang, the wooziness of whatever he’d taken recreationally before passing out… It _had_ happened. Probably way back when, when the world was still filled with potential and hope. Or maybe after, in between intoxicated hazes.

Jim tentatively uncurled his fingers to brush the backs of them over the backs of Spock’s. A familiar-feeling, sleepy-quiet fog drifted through the back of his mind. He yawned at the touch of it, and then he blinked sleepily as a sudden, appealing curl of unconsciousness twirled around his brain, beckoning him back into Morpheus’ lulling embrace.

He withdrew gently from Spock and rolled onto his back to reach above his head, tapping his knuckles against the bulkhead in a lengthening stretch. Various joints popped and his leg gave a little shake at the mild strain. With a satisfied grunt, he collapsed back down into the cradle of the mattress.

Except for the being thirsty problem, he found he felt good. Really good. Much better than he had the last couple times he had woken up, which each involved some measured combination of disorientation, extreme grogginess, and vaguely gnawing nausea. He took a deep, considering breath and held it as he contemplated on whether or not it had _all_ been due to exhaustion from his bout of sickness.

He exhaled heavily.

He gave a cursory glance over at Spock’s profile - just long enough to find him still deeply asleep - before finding something else to inventory. His gaze fell upon the nightstand where a glass of water waited. Jim raised himself up on an elbow and reached for it, finding it cool in the ambient temperature of his quarters. He sipped it, found it was exactly what he was expecting, and took several long pulls to thoroughly wet his vaguely rubber-flavored mouth, like maybe he’d chewed on an old, rubber elastic in his sleep.

(Once, when he had been about six years old and putzing around in the attic of his parents’ farmhouse, he’d found some - thick, cracked with age and twisted around tubes of thick, yellowed paper. He’d grabbed one with his teeth to pull it off. Never again. The taste didn’t leave his mouth until he ran downstairs to gulp down a tall glass of apple juice.)

Jim finished off the water and replaced the empty glass on the nightstand before collapsing back down on the bed, freezing for a beat when he forgot about Spock’s arm under him. Spock didn’t so much as twitch.

Jim melted back into his warm spot.

He took a deep breath, big enough to fill his lungs to bursting and make every bruise on this torso ache with a sharp tightness. He was pretty sure his whole upper body was covered in bruises of some sort. There was a hot ache on the curve of one shoulder that he wasn’t going to even try to take a look at until he was in front of a mirror. Each muscle was loose, heavy, well-worn, as though he had spent a few hours in the gym the day before. Slowly, he exhaled.

Then there was his ass to consider. He gave an experimental clench and his breath caught before shuddering out of him. Not only did his hole feel sore and achy, but there was a slight, sharp strain in his gluteal muscles. More bruising, maybe? It was. . .a good feeling, he decided as it made him feel hot from head to toe.

Cautiously, he reached back and slipped his fingers down the cleft, trying to feel for any possible damage. He held his breath, not sure how he would react to the first tentative touch, if it would sting or startle him or burn. The wrinkles of flesh leading to the tight furl of his hole were raw, a little puffy, and when he actually touched his rim, he found it tender - a little swollen, a little soft, a little _wet_.

A shock of fear startled him and he gently shoved the tip of his finger in, hyperfocused on any slight abnormalities. A bump, a sore, the sharp, unexpected sting of a tear... He found nothing but the burn of a stretching, overworked muscle and some minor swelling of slick flesh. Which still concerned him, because what if the problem (if there was one) was deeper inside him?

Bones would just love that, having to go in and repair him from the other end after getting him all healed up and purged of sickness from the first one.

Well, there was one quick way to check.

He slipped his finger free and brought his hand around to look, expecting possibly blood but finding smears of something thick and opaquely white around the edges of his fingernail.

The hot flush of arousal suffused him from the gut out.

_Ohhhhh._

Of course. Spock _had_ been buried pretty deep in him when he came. Down to the root and grinding deeper. Even dripping it from his gaping hole and then receiving a perfunctory cleaning, there was bound to be some cum still in him. (Cum _and_ slick.) Without. . .more thorough cleaning methods being employed. . .

Jim wiped his finger clean on a surreptitious edge of the fitted sheet beneath them.

Spock unexpectedly inhaled a little sharply and sighed, startling Jim’s joints into locking up. Adrenaline white-water-rushed through his veins and he barely breathed as he waited to see if Spock was waking. He reached out mentally for what he was starting to recognize as Spock in the back of his mind. There was just the soft cloud of sleep lazily swirling around.

It was time to hit the head, Jim decided.

He easily slipped from his bed, years of practice sneakily doing that exact thing kicking in. He could admit in the quiet privacy of his head that it was stupid and kind of weird doing such a thing when the person he was abandoning - avoiding - was also tapped into the back of mind. But he just needed a moment. Or two.

His stomach gurgled unhappily at him once he was on the other side of the partition and he stopped by his replicator to synthesize a thick, nutritious, and delicious breakfast smoothie. Once he had it in his hand, he made his way to the fresher on the balls of his toes, being as careful as possible to avoid Vulcan hearing.

It was ludicrous. He sipped at his smoothie and left it on the counter next to the sink so he could sit and take a piss. Take a minute to contemplate his life.

How had it gotten to this point?

There he was, buck-ass-naked in _his captain’s_ _quarters_ on a Federation Starship, creeping around the morning after, because he was trying to avoid the man who’d fucked him brainless the night before - who was also his fucking _soulmate_ \- like it was every other one-night stand, booty call, trick, or FWB of his life before becoming Starfleet’s poster-boy. (Thank god for pseuds, speaking of.)

His last fuck had been months (and _months_ ) ago. _And_ it had been in the line of duty, all things considered, so did it really count? (Off the records, of course.) And before that, he hadn’t been in a relationship for years. Hadn’t even tried since before the _Academy_ . _Gaila_ had been the last person who he had even been remotely “together” with, and that had been a purely physical arrangement between friends...until that afternoon she’d tried to tell him she loved him. (When he’d swiped access codes from her and beat the _Maru_ and then the particularly rank ding-dong-ditch fire-lit sack full of shit that was Nero had hit the proverbial fan.)

They were still friends, him and Gaila, even after a very rocky restart once everything settled back down. She was happily stationed on a Federation planet somewhere, working in an embassy since being in the black was hard for her after Vulcan. They exchanged vid messages every so often.

Anyway, the point was, Jim had no fucking clue what he was doing.

He dropped his head and rested his forehead in the cradle of his palms, elbows resting on his knees.

From what he understood of it, he and Spock were the equivalent of being engaged for Vulcans. And Spock’s dad already knew about it. Jim had been able to hold on to exactly one friend for more than a year in his entire life. And that was Bones. Bones didn’t even know it but their friendship was Jim’s longest relationship in his life. A little over five years.

How the fuck was he supposed to do this?

He paused his ruminations to clean up with a wet wipe and flush. Then he washed his hands, dried them, and started cleaning his teeth with his sonic toothbrush while very carefully avoiding his reflection. Once done with that, he finished off his smoothie to get rid of the tingle on his tongue from the toothbrush and ran the water lukewarm to splash on his face.

In any case, he would have to find some way to get his shit together enough to tell Spock that thing he promised. Why did he say he would do _that_? And why did he put a time limit on it? Even as vague as it was, “soon” couldn’t be more than a couple months. His options regarding that were to do it quick like a pulling a tooth or to draw it out like the slow death one might associate with starvation.

Jim knew himself. The longer he avoided talking about it, the _less likely he would be_ to talk about it, the longer he would avoid talking about it, the less likely— until the mere hint of a suggestive thought about it would make him sick. Then that would go on until he worked himself into a full-blown panic.

Besides, who knew how Spock might take the information.

Jim leaned over and splashed water on his face, scrubbing his palms over his wet skin before splashing it again.

Bones hadn’t been able to speak. He’d gotten all choked up and wanted to hug Jim— _hug_ him. And not just a quick, friendly, supportive one.

He had promptly gotten up from where they were seated in their little Academy-housing living room, stalked into the kitchenette area to take down a bottle of bourbon (the rough blend) from a cabinet, poured himself two fingers worth in a glass - which he promptly downed, and poured another full glass. That glass he had brought back to where Jim sat on the couch watching him, feeling guilty because Bones had been sober for several months and Jim telling him this had just broken the streak. Bones had plopped down right next to Jim, gruffly ordered the computer to tune in the radio to an older country station, and gathered Jim close. Jim had let it happen, understanding as soon as he was tucked against his new friend’s chest with the fingers of one of Bones’ hands combing his hair while the other held the whiskey, that this was Bones seeking comfort for himself.

Jim had only told him because Bones had finally signed off on the datawork to be his primary physician. Which, after an appeal to Starfleet’s Enlisted Personnel Department and an interview with a panel of various higher-ups, got back to Jim with a request to unlock his full file. (All of which was needed, considering the extra-sensitive, top-secret material contained within.) Jim, in turn, had signed off on that and it was sent in for processing. And that was when Jim decided it would be better for him to tell his friend and soon-to-be primary care physician in person, instead of letting him plunge - unknowingly - headlong into objective descriptions of everything, wading through the picture evidence and witness accounts unprepared for what he would find.

The point was that Bones hadn’t taken it well after only a year being his friend.

Spock...Who knew how Spock might react once he found out. There was a level of investment that no one else had ever really had when they’d learned.

He turned the tap off and let drops of water fall from the tip of his nose, his eyelashes, the ends of his lengthening hair, while he stared down the drain. One hand lifted a folded golden towel from the corner of the counter and he buried his face in it, sighing heavily into it before swiping it down his face and finally meeting his own gaze.

The man staring back at him shocked him.

The reflection showed him with a soft flush across his cheeks, his skin no longer sickly pale or oily. His eyes were bright and aware. His lips were red and—

Speckled.

He frowned and leaned forward, tilting his face into the glow of the vanity lights above the mirror.

Clustered to the side of his bottom lip and sporadically dotted out from there, breaking from the pale pink edges of his lip onto skin, were little spots of dark red color. Hickeys. His lips had hickey marks. Not around the edges like a cosmetic lip-plumper - or something similar - had been applied to them. No. Actual, fucking, hickey bruising. On his actual lips.

Jim felt like he’d just taken a glancing blow to his solar plexus.

That was a first. Sure, he’d split his lips before on a tooth when kissing got a bit too frenzied, or bruised them with a smack against something too-solid with a liberal application of carelessness.

But this… It was _claiming_.

Jim dropped his hands - and the towel - to the counter in disbelief.

Only to catch sight of his— neckshoulderchest _belly._

His fingers gripped the edge of the sink hard enough that his fingertips stung.

There, under the harsh, almost-white lights in the fresher was the evidence of Spock’s... claim. Ardor.

The curve of his shoulder, from the collarbone up, was one splotchy mass of red and purple. When he’d felt teeth, Jim hadn’t felt a shock of pain. Spock had pressed his bared teeth up against him, had huffed open-mouthed into that spot, Jim remembered. He had not been even _moderately_ aware of Spock applying enough suction or pressure to create...that.

And that was just the _biggest_ mark.

His ribs had dark, finger-shaped bruises that were pressed into his sides, curving around toward his back. There were a few vaguely crescent-shaped, smallish pinch-marks on his neck and upper chest. Then, lower, leaving a nonsensical trail down, were more tiny hickeys.

Jim swallowed thickly, feeling a tight ball of something heavy settling low in his chest. Paired with the slow, syrupy crawl of arousal warming his belly, he was abruptly overcome with a shaky sort of weakness.

He dropped his forehead down onto the rim of the sink and breathed heavily through his mouth, waiting for the dizziness and the tight, hard-to-breathe squeeze in his lungs to abate. Oh god, he was fucked. He was so, so, _so_ fucking fucked.

His skin itched and buzzed and he suddenly found he needed to see the other marks. There had to be others. There couldn’t not be others. Not with the way— Not when Spock had been—

Jim fell back away from the sink, stumbling upright and toward the full-length mirror that the shower stall wall could become on the outside. It engaged with his proximity and Jim froze once he was standing in front of it.

There were more bruises alright.

The towel he still clutched in his hand hit the floor.

Near the top of his thighs, just below the dip where leg met hip, were matching, deeply purple, oval bruises. Thumbprints.

Lower, closer to the knee of just one leg, on the inside of his thigh, was another similarly dark blemish.

Feeling a little too-off-balance, Jim braced himself and turned around, looking over his shoulder to see—

Four.

Eight all together.

Clustered close, three to a leg, finger-shaped bruises. The fourth one on each side hovered apart from the rest, more toward the outside of his thighs.

Jim shivered, remembering the clutch of the hands that had made those imprints in his skin. The hot, humid slide of skin against skin, right before his world exploded.

Recalling another burning hand clenching around another part of him, catching sight of a fainter mark on the swell of one buttcheek, Jim tentatively reached back, set his fingers to skin, and spread himself open.

A scorching twist of desire seized his gut. He nearly choked on it.

Even here, on the hidden seam of one buttock, was Spock’s stamped claim.

He couldn’t look anymore. Jim let go of himself, made fists, squeezed them tight, then released, and shook them. The burn of shame raked down his back.

How could he have—? He was covered in them... He had just let Spock... But it had felt _so good_ , so _right_ in a way nothing had in...

Jim Kirk was _not_ a passive screw. In fact, he often found that partners struggled to keep up with him in bed as he bowled them over with zeal and passion. He was _always_ an active participant in his own sex-life. ~~(Had to be.)~~ Had never thought he would ever passively lie back and allow someone to...

He gulped several times against the shakiness he could feel building in his muscles.

In his gut.

He was fucked. Oh god, was he fucked.

Epically. Cosmically.

Fucked.

He felt slithering shame. He felt the thrill of excitement. He felt fear prickling along the backs of his arms. He felt a molasses-thick burn of desire in his veins. He felt the curl of embarrassment over the back of his neck for how he’d acted. Reacted. Which was followed by confusion for feeling like that in the first place, since sex had stopped embarrassing him shortly after he’d started hustling.

 ~~(The first time)~~ ~~(Both times.)~~

But above it all, he felt a _cavernous vacancy_ wanting to be filled within him. He was _unfulfilled._ Empty. A _black hole._

Void.

There was a tight, achy, low-slung need to have it filled. It clogged up the back of his throat and burned the tips of his ears with teasing kisses.

Jim had never ( _ever_ ) had even a modicum of interest in cock-warming of any kind (doing or having done) before but with the sudden yawning need clawing at his insides, he found that, all at once, all he could think about was stuffing himself full of Spock’s dick to ease it. (And keeping it there until that well of emptiness was overfilled with nothing but Spock.)

Jim coughed into the back of his hand, honestly shocked at the surprising nature of his own thoughts. He stumbled backward into the mirror and all-but collapsed to the floor, landing hard on his ass and wincing.

This couldn’t be... What? Real? Happening? His life?

How was it that _this_ was only _now_ a thing?

Jim liked to think he knew himself pretty well. With all his screw-ups, hang-ups, and fuck-ups, he kind of had to. So some things he knew really turned him on. Some things worked in theory only. Some things he fantasized about and got off on, but he could never handle in real life. And that had really fucked him up from the ages of seventeen to twenty, when he was fucking his way through his problems and avoiding actually dealing with them. It had taken him a good long while to realize it was his own way of coping, of taking some things back and owning them, making them his again.

He didn’t think that at twenty-eight there would be much more he could learn about himself regarding this aspect of his life.

But apparently - against everything he was - he really, really enjoyed submission. Which was bizarre as fuck, because even just thinking it like that had him wanting to peel his own skin off. It was just so antithetical to what he was. What he wanted to be. _Especially_ with the clusterfuck that was his life.

And then he thought of Spock holding him down, in place, fucking him just as slow or as fast or as deep or as hard as he wanted, while Jim was unable to do anything but lie there and _take it_ and respond, react. All Spock needed him to do was _feel_ and _let him feel_ in turn.

Jim wasn’t even sure _why_ this whole Spock-thing was different anyway!

He dug his fists into his eyes, rubbing. Hysterical. Close to panicking. And still so fucking empty. Needy. ~~( _Thirsty, desperate,_ **_cheap,_ ** **_whiny, GREEDY..._ ** )~~

His sex life had been filled with many situations where he had been way more vulnerable than a bit of strength disparity. (Age gaps, sobriety issues, for pay, poorly-negotiated kink, multiple partners... Poorly conceived combinations thereof...) It frustrated him that he was so torn up over this and he couldn’t pinpoint why! Just that thinking about how he’d behaved made him vaguely queasy (in the panicky, anxious, embarrassed sort of way).

Suddenly all he wanted was to tear off his skin and launch himself into space in the direction of the nearest black hole.

Suddenly all he wanted was to go back to his bed where Spock was still sleeping soundly and curl into him, sink into him, blur their edges together and fill himself full of Spock until he was grounded again and the universe made sense and he stopped feeling like he was going to spontaneously combust.

Both of these thoughts scared the shit out of him.

He gulped down several lungfuls of recycled oxygen, feeling a low hum of panic underneath his skin, buffered by a weird, cottony numbness.

He needed to feel in control of himself again.

Feel like himself again.

Without thinking too hard about it, he scrambled up and made his way to the fresher door, shaking his hands out as he went and taking deep breaths.

He didn’t let himself stop or hesitate or pause until he was back in his quarters, back on the other side of the partition, and then freezing at the edge of his bed.

Because there was Spock and his heart squeezed and his breath wheezed out of him and Spock was—

 _Beautiful_.

Still sleeping, the arm that Jim had woken up using as a pillow thrown up over his head, face turned into it and tucked against a slightly bulging bicep, lips slightly parted and slightly verdigris, hair actually fucking _rumpled_. . .

Jim couldn’t breathe.

Spock was absolutely—

Awe-inspiring.

Because he was the only thing Jim wanted and he was _right there_ in Jim’s bed.

And all Jim wanted to do was blanket Spock’s body with his own, to stretch out all across it and feel his heat seeping into Jim’s skin.

What he found himself doing was tentatively crawling back onto the bed, hands on either side of Spock, one knee pressed to the mattress between Spock’s where one leg was slightly curled and cocked out to the side.

Spock didn’t even twitch as Jim settled in, haltingly reaching his hand up to touch Spock’s chest, caught somewhere between terrified hesitation and aching desire.

But then his fingertips hit skin and Jim felt only softness and warmth and...

He trailed his fingers down from the hollow at the base of Spock’s throat into the whorls of thick (but amazingly smooth and soft) hair across the top of his chest.

With a minute shift of his weight, he was able to sit back enough to bring his other hand into play, pushing both sets of fingers up against the grain before dragging his fingernails back down through it, holding his breath to hear the quiet scratchy noises they made as he combed it down. He continued downward, fingernails and fingertips so light on Spock’s skin they tingled.

At Spock’s navel, Jim dipped his index finger in, traced the edge, rubbed the palm of his other hand through the hair gathering up around and underneath it. Then he hit the edge of the sheet and his options were to either move it and continue downward in his explorations or turn around and go back up.

He had a flash-half-second image of stretching out, draping himself over Spock, both their fingers intertwining above Spock’s head, lips moving slowly together as Jim slow-kissed him to wakefulness. Jim’s breath stuttered and he nearly shivered.

It was a nice (wonderful) thought and he wanted it.

 _Wanted_ it.

But.

He looked back down at the sheet bunched across Spock’s hips, under Jim’s hunched over body.

.........

The fact of the matter was that Jim wouldn’t have even considered it, except...

Except every time he touched Spock he felt.

_Felt._

He felt acceptance and contentedness and openness and invitation.

It was another thing he never thought he’d be into, until he was hovering over Spock’s sleeping body, contemplating something that would have disgusted him if anyone but Spock were to ever reverse the situation and try to do it to him.

Anyone but Spock.

Huh.

Heat rushed out from his center making his arms tingle, at the thought of waking to Spock above him, touching him. Like this. Apparently he was very much into somnophilia if it was with Spock.

Weird.

He was also very much choosing not to think too hard about it at that moment, feeling the bubble of panic for the briefest of moments before he put a lid on it again.

Instead, he delicately plucked up the rumple of sheet laying against Spock’s skin and eased it down, gaze intent on every centimeter of skin exposed, on every new hair uncovered.

Until he realized, once he had pulled the sheet far enough down to see the fitted sheet between Spock’s legs, that he had missed something.

He felt the draw of the frown bunching up between his eyebrows as he stared at the neatly groomed crinkles of dark hair at the apex of Spock’s thighs. Where was Spock hiding the monster cock he’d fucked Jim with the night before?

Jim chuckled to himself internally because, wow, what a stupid thought.

Contemplatively, he rubbed his hands up and down the tops of Spock’s thighs, staring at that thatch of hair, sweeping his gaze up the spread out body before him once to drink it all in from that angle. Experimentally, he reached for one of the hairs near Spock’s navel and gave it a sharp tug.

Spock let out the tiniest little huff of unguarded irritation and Jim felt, floating through the grey haze at the back of his head, the annoyance Spock felt for the briefest moment before settling. Not giving himself a moment to think about it, Jim leaned forward and kissed the assaulted hair, feeling the intoxicatingly warm press of Spock’s skin against his lips.

Jim hovered for a moment, wondering if he was really going to let himself do this, let himself go there, let himself _take_ like this, since he had the confirmation now.

He nuzzled his face down just a little bit toward where Spock’s dick should be and felt only a lulling, permissive enjoyment coming from where Spock was connected to his mind.

_Yeah, he totally was._

It seemed that was all he needed. Giving himself up to feeling, Jim let his eyes fall closed completely and took to learning this part of Spock’s body by texture with his lips and by scent, where, even here, Spock smelled woodsy and hot like desert sands and fire. He nuzzled and kissed at the crease of each thigh, softly brushed his lips up and down the trail of hair under Spock’s navel, reached out with his tongue to taste. His palms and sensitized fingertips learned the feel of Spock’s thighs, hard with muscle even in the relaxation of sleep, covered with thin, barely-noticeable hairs. He softly tested his grip around the curves of Spock’s hips, committed to memory with his thumbs the shape, jut, and dip of the bones there.

He was lost in his exploratory ministrations for several minutes until he caught a familiar scent - slightly tangy, almost like a sour candy.

Jim pulled back just far enough for his eyes to be able to focus properly and he saw—

Spock’s pubic hair was wet. Not in the way Jim’s saliva was wet but in a thick, glistening way. And only in one location that was basically right smack where a penis would be, were Spock human.

So based on deductive reasoning, Jim reached out with careful, cautious fingers and felt around.

What he found was a hard mound and more wet, and then, a. . .seam. It was the only way he could explain it. It felt like a hardly noticeable line, horizontal, about three inches wide. Jim pressed gently against it.

And it dipped, parted, opened and suddenly the very tip of one of Jim’s fingers was inside somewhere very hot and very wet and pulled tight in twin lines across the top and bottom of his fingertip. He pulled his finger free, fascinated by what he was finding as he watched some of what had to be Spock’s natural lubricant as it dribbled down over curls of dark hair from that secret place.

There was a heavy shiver of burgeoning arousal that Jim knew was from Spock and Jim felt his body respond to it. His cock began to fill out and he wanted to reach down with a hand coated in Spock’s thick slick and help it along.

Lightly musing on that thought, Jim rubbed his fingers together, considering the texture of the fluid coating them. It was slick, very slick. Oily slick. Viscous. Sticky, almost. It definitely was clinging pretty valiantly to his fingers. The odd pondering of his skin absorbing it like massage oil slipped through his mind and he wasn’t sure whether or not to be bothered ~~(disgusted?)~~ by that idea.

Jim dropped his gaze back down and felt a tendril of want drawing him up tighter. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to bury his face between Spock’s thighs and find out exactly how he ticked down there, what turned him on, what he liked, what made him _hard_.

Jim didn’t even know what that little seam looked like but he couldn’t wait to know everything about it.

So he set out about doing just that, finding exactly what he thought it was when he brushed Spock’s pubic hair out of the way with his thumbs. It was a little seam of flesh - hardly an overlap of skin over skin. It was tight and wet and a dark emerald green. The wetter it got as Jim pet his thumb back and forth across it, the more it seemed to loosen - open - until a little nub with a familiar looking slit nudged through.

 _Oh!_ Jim found himself thinking. _That’s kinda. . .cute_.

And really, really hot. He unthinkingly dipped his finger in next to it and, yep, that was definitely a cockhead. It was too tight to press any further so Jim could just barely hook the very tip of his finger over the ridge of the glans.

He needed to taste it.

Needed to feel it.

Needed it to come out and play.

And before Jim could catch himself, he was dropping chest down between Spock’s legs, shouldering them apart to make room, careless of the sheet stretching beneath him and across Spock’s thighs.

He kissed that little nub peek-a-booing out at him, and there was a playful, wondering, hovering—

_‘Please come out and play.’_

His lips were wet now.

And he could purse them so they fit perfectly around the slight bump that was the tip of Spock’s slowly emerging cockhead. It was oddly addicting to feel it against his mouth like that so he pressed another, more-lingering kiss over it. His brain was buzzing.

A little wiggle and he was laid out on his belly, legs curled so his heels hovered above his butt. His arms were curled underneath his chest to prop him up, balance him. Another wiggle of just his hips - and a dip of a hand beneath him - had his cock lined out on the bed, curled up toward his belly button.

Settled and ready to really set himself to task, Jim licked his lips and startled at the vague sweet he tasted there, mixed with the bright spark of tang on the tip of his tongue.

He dove forward and gave a broad-stroke lap with his tongue across the whole setup, swallowing what he caught and rolling the flavor around in his mouth.

(Above him, Spock’s breath hitched so unnoticeably Jim’s hindbrain almost missed it.)

Jim nearly laughed out loud, instead huffing his amusement into the crease of Spock’s groin.

Spock tasted (albeit, mutedly _but_ ) exactly like a sour candy. Not as intense and definitely not overwhelmingly sour, but still. Sour candy. Except there was a weird aftertaste that lingered in the back of Jim’s throat, a similar taste to what a lazy, day-old sweat was like. Musky-tang. Bitter. Clean, slightly stale sweat. Almost like what eating ass tasted like sometimes. (Less intense. But still.)

It wasn’t a bad taste.

It was more bizarre and delightful and new and wonderfully arousing.

Without a thought more toward categorizing it, Jim sealed his mouth around the nub of flesh presented to him and gave it a gently sucking kiss.

He swirled the tip of his tongue around it, twisted his tongue against the slit, dipped just beneath the edge of the seam of skin that hid it, and gave the whole area all manner of licks and suckles, from edge to edge. It was a level of attention he would devote to teasing a partner’s nipple into heightened sensitivity with all the pleasure of reveling in the delight of taste and feel and texture he got when he sucked cock or ate someone out. With Spock’s exciting new flavor filling his mouth, he was enraptured.

He didn’t even think what might happen when he slipped a finger back into that tight, wet place hiding Spock’s cock away from him, too caught up in the buzz of bright arousal coursing through his veins. It was refreshing, invigorating, and addicting.

So it thoroughly surprised him that while he absentmindedly suckled widely around the large slit and wiggled the tip of his finger along the ridge of Spock’s glans, he suddenly found the weight of it cradled on his tongue, filling his mouth. There was a hot gush of slick against his chin and Jim groaned around his unexpected prize. He was caught between the desire to keep going or pull back and look, sear into his mind every stage.

With a wet little pop, he reared back (thick strands of saliva and slick, mixed, clung to his lips and connected his mouth to the whole mess, and Jim’s brain near shorted out) and hungrily stared down at the flared tip and minuscule bit of shaft that had slipped out of the widening seam of green-flushed flesh. It was all so shiny and slick and the head of Spock’s cock was thick around the ridge and tapered at the tip, more pointed— more _pronouncedly_ pointed, than most humans’ dicks that Jim had been this close to.

Jim opened wide and sealed his mouth around all of it again, undulating his tongue over the area where humans had frenulums but Spock just had some kind of double ridge that Jim was really getting into learning the feel of as he rubbed it over the wet silk of his tongue. His hips started a tiny little rocking motion against the mattress, a helpless little twitch he didn’t care to control as it turned up the heat of the simmer low in his belly. He found his mouth pooling with drool and his finger still wiggling minutely against the bit of shaft he could reach.

He swallowed the excess of fluid gathering in his mouth and was peripherally aware that muscles in Spock’s hips were tightening before another centimeter or two slipped from one tight cavern right into another.

Jim moaned happily and cradled what he could on his tongue, shoving the very tip of it _into_ Spock just to get at more. He mashed his nose into Spock’s curls and puffed out hot, heavy breaths, overwhelmed by the scent of Spock and the taste of Spock and the feel of Spock in his mouth.

The thrum of arousal grew and he humped the bed twice before catching himself, drool now escaping the seal of his lips around his mouthful. And it _was_ a mouthful now.

His free hand was in a fist beneath him, clutched helplessly around nothing.

Sliding back enough to bump his lips just barely against Spock’s skin, Jim took to wiggling his finger more insistently along the side of what he could reach, passingly wondering if the pouch (it had to be a pouch, right?) was getting tighter.

It didn’t matter.

He just needed more. And his coaxing seemed to be working. The suckling of his tongue and petting of his finger had given him this much.

He bobbed his head in short bursts, hyperaware of the way his lips stretched just the slightest bit more down Spock’s shaft, the way the bottom one caught on something every time he went up, the way Spock’s slick clung to his chin. The way he couldn’t quit drooling, adding his saliva to the mess he was making.

His hips shifted restlessly and his back arched, dipped his belly lower into the bed, tipped his ass up as though presenting it for fucking. The thought of which had him whimpering.

And then he was nearly choking as his mouth was abruptly stuffed full. He was forced to shove his upper body up and slightly away to keep from gagging, completely unprepared for the length of cock that had emerged.

Jim was stuck with just the head in his mouth again, but at least now he had access to the rest of it.

His finger had been shoved out along with a gush of slick. A lot of it. A lot. It was everywhere when Jim wrapped his hand around the base and dragged it slowly upward to meet his lips. It squelched out between his fingers.

A high whine built up into a shivery whimper as his thumb bumped over (and over and over) and caught the full way up. He popped off again and stared in amazement as he slowly fisted way too many inches of verdigris to emerald cock, pale and slightly thicker up near the glans and almost unnoticeably curved upward. And then the base was a dark, deep emerald, and cradled by glistening folds that curled only around the underside.

Jim dove down to dig his tongue in, moaning at the concentrated taste, the silky and slightly bumpy texture of them. A muscle along the inside of Spock’s thigh jumped. He wiggled his tongue around more vigorously. Spock’s thighs trembled.

The folds were _sensitive_.

Jim drew back, cupped the thickness of Spock’s cock in his palm, marveled at the pinky-width ridges along the underside, bisected almost imperceptibly down the center. Then he laid the flat of his tongue against the bottom-most one and gave them one decisive lick all the way up to the double-ridge of the underside of the crown.

He shivered from head to curled toes. Somehow, though he could drag the pad of his thumb down them and barely feel a change - an almost smooth slide - going up was. . .an experience. They had to be slightly more flared or layered or something along the bottom of each because.....

Oh god.

_Oh. God._

Jim’d had that _in_ him last night. _That_ had been what had made him shake, made him breathless, had him yowling like a goddamned cat in heat and losing his fucking mind. Oh.

_Ohhhnh._

He shot up onto one hand and shoved his hips down into the mattress, using his already messy hand to stuff as much of Spock’s dick into his mouth as possible, completely disregarding his gag reflex.

There were obscene slurping noises and muffled _uck-uck-ucks_ as he worked on battering his throat into submission, until he could sink far enough down his jaw ached and the head of Spock’s dick slipped past the back of his throat and sank just a bit deeper. Until his bottom lip was raw from the ridges. Until his eyes were watering and his hand was sticky-wet where it was fisted beneath his mouth.

His hips were rubbing his own cock against the bed sheets in sporadic bursts, occasionally in time with his bobbing, and he whimpered pathetically when hit with the scorching desire to come like this. But only after... Only after Spock’s cock was shoved as far as it could go down his throat and his belly was filled full of Spock’s cum and. . .

Jim was nearly creaming himself at the idea already, still whimpering and moaning around Spock’s cock as he slowed the bobbing of his head up and down.

And shit, shit, shit he was doing it again. Losing himself too much. Losing control. _Losing his fucking mind._

He had indulged in _that_ particular kink all of _four times_ his entire life. It took him years ( _fucking years_ ) to be okay with it, and another year after that to even try it. He loved it. _Loved_ doing it. Absolutely hated how he felt afterward, when the guilt and panic started to overtake him, threatened to drag him back.....

Jim pulled off Spock’s cock with a loud gasp and hid his face against Spock thigh, trying to get some control over himself again, trying to find where he lost his goddamned mind this time and back-track. Trying to calm the fuck down. He was panting heavily and trembling, and his hips were still abortively grinding down into the mattress.

What the fuck was going on with him?

Breathing slower and more deliberately, he lifted back up and carefully wrapped his lips back around the head that was a dark pine-green now, gently suckling with just his undulating tongue and slightly hollowed cheeks.

There was a slow burn of desire growing within-on-the-edge-outside-of him before it spiked searingly, making him freeze and shudder, like the dawning sun on a cold morning.

He jumped at the touch to the back of his head, and his eyes flew open, head tilting enough that he could see Spock’s face.

(But of course he didn’t take his mouth or hand away from Spock’s dick... Couldn’t really.... Should’ve really...)

Spock was awake. And staring down at him, one hand gently cupping the back of Jim’s head.

His expression was bleary, hair sleep tousled, but his gaze was glittering, impenetrable, and focused, perfectly aware of and very interested in what Jim was doing.

 _'Hey,’_ Jim thought he should probably say if he would just remove Spock’s dick from his mouth.

 _‘Good morning,’_ he might follow up with.

Instead he stared at Spock staring at him and the back of his neck burned. All the way down his spine it burned. From the base of his skull to the swell of his tailbone. It was an embarrassed, caught-in-the-act-red-handed, needy burn. Jim knew he was bright red with it.

Unlike Spock, who had just woken to his captain blowing him like a desperate slut and only had a blooming of jade coloring his ears and the apples of his high cheekbones.

He said nothing.

Jim said nothing.

And then Spock very delicately, very _deliberately,_ curled his fingers in the hair on the crown of Jim’s head and pressed down.

Jim keened and relaxed his jaw, watching Spock now staring at his cock sinking past Jim’s swollen lips. When the head slipped into Jim’s throat, Spock’s eyes fell closed and he tilted his head back. He sighed. His fingers loosened and the hand above his head twitched, fingers slightly fisting just for a second. It was the only indication that he was hovering precariously in the vicinity of losing his own control.

Jim understood.

Jim _understood._

He slowly pulled back until he was chastely kissing the very tip of Spock’s cock, resting it against his roughed-up lower lip, compulsively lapping at the wet slit. He shivered, shuddered, took a deep breath, and started again, Spock’s hand a comforting weight at the back of his head.

He could make Spock come like this. _Jim_ could totally come like this. Hips slowly grinding into the mattress and Spock’s cock weighty on his tongue. Spock’s hand encouragingly at the back of his head. Spock laid out lax and passive, when the night before he had been coiled and aggressive.

Jim was nearly ready to come like this. Very ready. So close.

But that cavernous need in his gut decided to rear its roaring head and make itself known again. Jim’s plans hung a sharp, desperate left.

With a jerk, Jim heaved his knees up under himself and scooped up as much of Spock’s excess slick as he could from around the base - around those soft folds - with his filthy hand before reaching desperately between his legs and shoving two slippery fingers into his hole.

He had forgotten how sore he was until he was grunting around his mouthful at the achy sting and burn as his muscles protested, tensing up. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care how raw or sore or tender he was. He needed this.

He _needed_ it like breathing.

So two fingers right off the bat, scissoring and tugging at his rim, giving himself a perfunctory stretch. He was still loose from last night. Loose and soft and pliable and wet. It didn’t take much and he didn’t have patience enough for anything else.

This time he didn’t bother doing anything other than opening his mouth to drop Spock’s cock from it, thick strands of viscous fluid hanging from tongue to tip.

Then he was scrambling up until he was crouched above Spock’s hips, bracing his clean hand on Spock’s stomach while he steadied Spock’s cock against his hole. He pressed down and back, feeling resistance, ache, an involuntary tightening.

But the ridge of Spock’s cockhead popped in and Jim’s ass swallowed a couple centimeters of shaft before stopping at the thickest point. It burned exquisitely and Jim was forced to wiggle and twist his hips in small, pitiful circles to work past it, grind it into himself.

Once he was past it, though, he trembled and panted harshly, almost hysterically euphoric.

His belly clenched with strain and his legs nearly gave out, reminding him he was still bodily exhausted from everything.

So with slow, careful shifts, he dropped to one knee, and then the other, sliding just that much farther down and making quiet, mewling, choked noises. Not ready. So ready. Too deep too quick with not enough prep. It didn’t matter. Not at all. Because from there, the rest of Spock’s cock filled him easily. A smooth drop right down to the base.

And Jim nearly sobbed as he felt it in the back of his throat.

Beneath him, Spock was like a bowstring, pulled taut and held there.

Jim felt it under his palm, he felt it in the slightly curved line of his body. He opened eyes that he had squeezed shut in concentration and saw it in the way his head had stayed tilted back but the tendons in his neck popped and the hand that had been on the back of Jim’s head was now curled into the sheets off to the side of Jim’s knee. Most tellingly, it was in the way his hand above his head was fisted so tight the tendons on the inside of his wrist stood out. Or it was in the way his face seemed resolutely placid with his eyes closed, lips barely parted, and not a furrow to mar the illusion anywhere. But the hinge of his jaw bulged and everything was tight. Tighttighttight.

He was a bowstring beneath Jim, strung too tight, ready to snap at slightest tug back.

Jim melted down into the points of contact between them, where they were joined, the burning lines of skin touching skin.

His knees slid farther apart around Spock’s hips and just the tiniest bit more of Spock’s cock sank in.

It was pressure, pressure, pressure inside him, a dull ache soothed by the throb of pleasure from nerves lit up from that little bundle hidden behind his walls.

Jim had to force himself not to squirm, not to tighten right back up again, not to clench. He had to stay warm and loose and welcoming and pliant. Soft.

He wiped his dirty hand mostly clean with a discarded edge of the bedsheet still twisted around Spock’s legs and now his feet were partially tangled in it too but it didn’t matter because he could place his hands on Spock’s sturdy chest, rake his fingers through the fur there, lean forward onto his elbows, bend himself in half like a frog, and press the gentlest kiss to the underside of Spock’s chin.

Spock’s breath stopped. His heartbeat continued to flutter against the inside of Jim’s left thigh near the knee.

Then, all at once, he, too, melted.

Jim felt the wash of a gentle, satisfied haze against the back of his mind.

Spock sighed.

Jim pressed his lips to Spock’s skin again, just under the curve of his chin.

He sat up, placing one hand on Spock’s steady stomach where the muscles were tight.

His other hand found his cock that was plumped and interested but not raring to go. Half soft. He palmed it gently, just enjoying the sensation, caught between that and the feeling of Spock filling him out. A bizarre contentedness settled over him and he found he had absolutely no desire to do anything but sit there like that, softly petting his own cock just for the pleasure of it while holding Spock’s cock nestled inside.

He didn’t need to come. Didn’t even want to. Kind of... wanted to... maybe stay like that for however long he could get away with it. Open and filled up with Spock.

There was the lightest touch to his leg, just above the knee, and his eyes fluttered open.

Spock was staring up at him with hooded, chocolate eyes, arm loose up above his head, hair sweetly sleep-rumpled across his brow and the pillow. Jim’s gaze strayed to a greenish and dark-yellow spot on his shoulder, a recognizable set of teeth imprints. He remembered last night and the sweeping inferno of his orgasm.

His cock twitched in his cupped fist.

Fingers, Spock’s fingers, rested heavily against his thigh. A thumb pressed to the inside of it just barely hard enough to be known. And Spock watched him.

Jim licked his lips, briefly sucking on his lower one. He wanted to kiss Spock again. Slowly. Savoring it.

But he was perfectly happy where he was. He squirmed just for the sake of it, reveling in the sensations of everything being soft and warm. He inhaled sharply through his nose at the rub of Spock’s _hard_ cock over his raw walls.

He closed his eyes and grabbed Spock’s forearm with the hand he had been touching himself with.

And he moved.

Not a lot. Not barely a little. He ground his hips down, around, in tiny circles, deliberately clenched and released around Spock’s dick. Needed to feel every bit of it inside him, rigid and fat.

Spock shuddered, a minute tremble Jim felt against the insides of his thighs. He pressed down hard, squeezed, felt the silky folds at the base of Spock’s dick against his rim. Felt how wet they were, felt how hot they were.

A tiny moan bubbled up from his chest, rolled over his tongue and around the open space of his closed mouth.

Sparkler showers of pleasure danced down his spine.

He reached behind himself for Spock’s thigh, thighs, gripped them tightly above the knee as they rose to meet him, brace him. He knew Spock was watching him, could feel his eyes burning, boring into him.

Jim moved. He tipped his chin up to the ceiling and arched back, tilted his hips to press and work Spock’s cock up against his prostate. The slight curve, the thickness of it, made it easier. His body rocked minutely in time with his own sighing breaths that were too loud and too heavy in the confines of his quarters.

Pleasure, like a buzzing current, rolled through him molasses-slow as he forced himself to stay loose, open, softsweetpliant, to not clench unless he meant to. With each held breath and shuddery sigh, with each twist and tilt of his hips, with each shallow rock, Jim worked himself higher, riding the saccharine swells of— of— _euphoria_ sweeping through him _._

Never in his life had he felt like this, fucked like this. Slow? Sure. Shallow? Yeah. Riding cowgirl? Of course. Giving his p-spot some undivided attention? Heck yes. But... honeyed and patient and balmy and selfishly giving? Even when he’d been trying to date and get things right and be a good boyfriend, sex had never been like this.

‘ _Making love,’_ Jim derisively thought, _'had never felt like this.’_

He tried to hold them back, the silence around them too _sacred_ to be violated. But the stiffer the pressure that was snug up against his prostate became as he rolled his hips like he was dancing to some unheard rhythm, the harder it was to swallow them down. Too loudly for his liking, Jim was quietly whimpering. High little “mmmhhp”s of pleasure were bridled behind bitten lips as they bubbled up from chest with every needy sigh.

Soft as they were, the sounds were loud in comparison to Spock’s deliberately measured breaths. Their only competition was the slick noises from between Jim’s legs, but they, too, were quiet and obscene only in the silence of the cabin.

Heat, and therefore color, bloomed across his cheeks and Jim squeezed his eyes shut so tight starbursts of light exploded behind his eyelids.

Suddenly, all he wanted was to come. His muscles were loose and jello-like, his ass wet and open and sucking Spock’s cock back deep when Jim pulled off just a little. He was sweltering, choking on the cloying fog of pleasure he was trapped in. Balmy, burning, sweating, Jim felt like he was suffused with a fever.

And very, very abruptly, his felt tight in his own skin. Felt like there was a coil deep in his gut being wound up too much too tight. Even though his muscles still felt relaxed and pliant and soft, something deeper was strung out and ready.

The fever in his body rose...

Searing in intensity, it washed through him. He felt like he should be blistering with it. He gulped down air, nearly started to hyperventilate. His toes were tingling, losing feeling, and it was almost like he was going to come but a thousand times more disorienting, more overwhelming. He felt dazed and wrung out with pleasure, exhausted from heat and exertion.

He recognized it immediately. Knew that soon, he would break. But it had never (once again, _never_ ) been like this before. What he was feeling now was _all consuming_.

It had to be Spock.

spock. spock. spock.

It was too much.

He was almost sick from it, in a dizzying, clutching sort of way. His nerves were static.

It was _too much_.

Jim trembled. His thighs felt too tight. Too relaxed. Tingly. He was buzzing apart in his own skin. Nerves at the base of his spine fizzed, fizzled down the backs of his legs.

Was it going to be like this every time?

Jim couldn’t handle it.

He wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

Would not.

Too much toomuchtoomuch.

He couldn’t breathe. Was breathing too much, too deeply.

Distantly, it was almost like dying but with less pain. One hundred and twenty percent less pain. In fact.

And then he was coming.

His orgasm nearly surprised him as it crested and broke over him, surface tension dissolving, his every nerve awash in champagne-glitter sparks and thick muggy heat and it went on _forever,_ twisted and squeezed out of him.

His body shook. He was chilled to the bone. His blood was burning. Goosebumps rippled across his skin. He faltered, he flailed and pitched forward. One hand clawed down the center of Spock’s chest. The other hand curled around Spock’s bicep with talon-like fingers.

The world tilted and Jim’s eyes flew open.

His breath caught; he was trapped by inky pools like Spock was reaching into him to grip his heart, hold him in place as he held him in place.

Then Spock began to thrust, pulling out and driving his cock deep, careless as he haphazardly brutalized Jim’s hypersensitive prostate. Jim choked. A hand found his cock and he nearly shrieked. Wailed. Wet. He was slick and wet and sensitized and not even hard. Jim was suspended in the middle of coming, toes clenched so tight his legs were nearly cramping. He could do nothing but hold on and try not to pass out as he was pulled higher, cranked taut, drawn out too thintighttrembling. He was hyperventilating on hitched breaths, punched out of him.

Spock jacked him short and tight as he found and rode out his own cresting wave, filling Jim full of cum and positively _wringing_ another orgasm out of him right on the tail of his first one. It shattered Jim and his _existence_ whited out as he floated through the shaky-painful good-bad aftershocks. Every breath hiccuped out of him, every muscle twitched, every touch stung - wastoomuchtoogoodtoofreezinghot.

When he drifted back to himself, it was with full, high definition recall of every single second that had passed, breathing so hard it hurt as his heart practically kicked through his sternum. It was vaguely, cerebrally nauseating. Dizzying. Like vertigo. Mixed with heat exhaustion from the sun’s burning rays in the peak of summer.

They were on their sides, Jim curled in tight against Spock’s chest, stuffed full of cum with Spock’s cock plugging him up. His legs were loosely locked around Spock. And Spock was petting him everywhere. He was cradled in tight with one arm, and Spock’s free hand was stroking up and down his side, his back, over his flank, down his leg to the knee, and back up.

It was grounding and Jim felt the jagged edges he’d splintered into settle back into something more the shape of himself.

If it was going to be like that every time they had sex, Jim wouldn’t survive. He could feel it, in the pit of his stomach. Fear. A tiny knot, barely an inconvenience, but if left alone, it would twist and tangle and grow, until he was truly afraid of... _this._

He wouldn’t be able to handle it, losing himself like that every time.

“What is causing you distress, t’hy’la?” Spock murmured so softly it was almost like he hadn’t spoken at all, but it still startled Jim.

He swallowed tightly.

How did he admit that intimacy, specifically this intimacy with Spock, terrified him?

How did he explain that away without bringing up everything attached to it?

The short answer was that he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not unless he wanted to hurt Spock, make him feel rejected and abandoned (for the who-knew-how-many-dth time).

“I, uh- Will— Will it always be that.....intense between us?” He asked. His voice was raspy, throat burning from exertion, parched. The question came out more tentative than he’d intended.

“Eventually, the bond will settle. We will settle. Control, careful exploration, and time spent together will make it so.”

“We have to learn our boundaries and limits together is what you’re saying.”

“Yes, and no.” Spock shifted, drawing Jim in closer. Jim gasped as Spock’s still hard cock moved in his overworked ass.

“You’re still completely hard!” He breathed incredulously.

“Vulcans have no refractory period. Through a combination of environment, stimulation, and mental control, an erection can be maintained for extended periods even after orgasm has been achieved.”

“What is it now? Have you had a lot of practice controlling your cock, Spock?” Jim teased tiredly, putting emphasis on the rhyme with a small pause between words.

“I do not wish to part with you just yet,” Spock admitted, too gently for it to be anything but a shame-faced confession and Jim instantly felt like a heel.

“I—” Fair was fair. Honesty for honesty. He swallowed and his throat clicked. “I don’t want you to. Not after that. Couldn’t... Couldn’t handle it if you’d pulled away.”

Jim’s confession was equally soft and raw.

He half-wished he could just not be.

Spock placed his hand in the center of Jim’s back, palm warm and fingers splayed.

“When—” Jim started and his voice cracked. He paused to clear his throat. “When did you wake up, exactly?”

“Part of my consciousness had been aware as soon as yours was,” Spock stated simply. “I felt you leave the bed as I continued to rest. I know you spent some time in the fresher. And when you returned you were determined and amorous.”

“Oh,” Jim said, quiet and a teeny bit embarrassed.

“Do not worry, my James. Your desire was mine.”

“I’ve never done anything like that before. Honestly, it’s always been a hard stop with anyone I’ve ever been with before. I had a chick try to wake me with a blowjob once and I reflexively punched her in the face when I woke up. I felt horrible because she was just trying to be nice. She thought it was an overreaction. She wasn’t really any more understanding when I explained that it grossed me out. I had given her a black eye so I didn’t really blame her. The guilt only made my anxiety about the whole thing worse. We didn’t see each other again after that.”

“Why did you desire it this time then, if it has bothered you in the past? Was it the reversal of roles in the experience?”

Jim bristled defensively at the questions but since it was Spock, and he knew - could feel it - that Spock did not ask from a place of judgement, he forced himself to take a cleansing breath and tell the truth.

“I’m not sure,” he whispered, petting over the green welts he’d left on Spock’s chest with his fingernails. They were buried beneath the whorls of hair there. “I freaked out a little over last night when I was in the head. It just hit me how out of control my life felt at that moment. A week ago we were just friends, Spock.”

“We have never been ‘just’ anything, Jim,” Spock interrupted. “It is impossible.”

A small smile stole Jim’s lips for a moment.

“I wanted control over myself, I guess. I wanted to know I could touch you and not lose my fucking mind. It clearly backfired.”

He huffed a chuckle into Spock’s shoulder.

“After that orgasm, I’ll be lucky if I have enough mind left over to give anyone a piece of it should the need arise.”

Spock hummed in acknowledgment.

“I also wanted to feel you. Last night, you pampered me and I barely got to touch you, to learn what you felt like and what made you feel good. And then it had been... Well, you know.”

“And did you learn? Did you enjoy doing so?” Spock asked and there as a certain heat to his tone that had Jim lifting his shoulders up toward his ears.

“Yes,” he whispered meekly.

“And if you were to wake in my position? How would you have responded? Would you have liked that? Or would you have had a similar reaction to that previous instance?”

“I—” Jim faltered. “I would have liked it.”

He could hardly admit it. Could barely consider that if he opened his eyes to find Spock sucking his cock, that he would reach down to clutch him closer, spread his legs open for more. Not after....

It hit him then, that he was going to have to tell Spock today. He couldn’t let it wait.

He tried to shoot up away from Spock, skin crawling and heart beginning to race.

Spock stopped him with a steel banded embrace, but the sudden movement was still jarring and jerked Spock’s cock halfway out before Jim remembered. He hissed in a sharp breath and collapsed back against Spock’s chest, his well-fucked ass protesting with a lightening-ache zipping up his spine.

“Maybe we should consider disentangling and cleaning up,” Spock suggested lowly, reasonably. But more importantly, giving Jim an out. He was being careful with Jim. Which— Was nice. And terrifying. Uncomfortable. (Fuuuuuck.)

“Yeah, yes, absolutely. I’m all tacky with sweat. Why don’t you ever get sweaty?”

“Living on a desert planet and wasting fluids in such a way would be pointless, would it not?” Spock raised a brow at Jim. “It is just not how Vulcans evolved.”

Shifting Jim gently onto his back, Spock cradled Jim’s hips in his palms as he slowly withdrew his cock from Jim’s ass in one continuous pull. Jim grimaced at the sensation and, once he was free, he wiggled to the edge of the bed to stand up, planning on heading to the fresher to clean up.

As soon as he was upright though, his hole quivered and clenched and a gush of hot fluid trickled down his leg. He froze and his whole body burned, skin tight and crawly and uncomfortable. His hands balled into fists and he ducked his head, knowing, just already knowing, that Spock was watching him. His gut squirmed and flopped around like a dying fish searching for water.

There was a delicate, steadying touch to the outside of his leg and a cloth was pressed to the inside of his knee, sliding up and catching the mess from his skin. Jim gulped and looked down. Spock was using the already-soiled topsheet to wipe him up.

He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t not. It would kill him, not knowing.

So Jim turned his upper body just enough to get a good glance at Spock from the corner of his eye.

Spock’s gaze was intent on where he was pressing the sheet up between his cheeks, tenderly cleaning his semen from the surface of Jim’s body. He noticed Jim watching him, flicked his gaze up at Jim from beneath his dark eyelashes, and leaned forward to press a lingering kiss to the side of Jim’s hip. Jim’s breath hitched.

“You do not know how much it pleases me to see you so full of my ejaculate it drips from you,” Spock whispered, his ears turning a dark jade. “I am currently resisting the urge of every instinct, every thought, that demands I pull you back into my arms, lay you out in our mating bed, and keep you plugged full of my semen.”

Jim released his breath like he’d been hit in the gut. He adamantly ignored the way he flushed with heat, every cell in his body suddenly interested in that scenario.

“We should—” He coughed. “We need to clean up.”

Spock kissed him once more on the back of his hip before joining him on his feet, dragging the ruined sheet with him and balling it up. Jim went toward the fresher and Spock went toward the laundry chute.

Jim had been planning on a cursory cleaning - a wet cloth to wipe up the worst of the mess, a quick sonic to get rid of the tacky, crusty feeling on his skin from his sweat - but Spock joined him with other plans. He carefully took the warm cloth from Jim and began mopping up and rubbing away the worst of it, which, yes, meant cleaning down the crack of his ass and up between his thighs.

The whole time he stared at Jim with that hooded, glittering gaze that radiated some kind of content smugness and a baffling amount of heat. Jim stared down and to the side, bright red in embarrassment and completely unable to even glance up to meet that look.

Once Jim was clean, and stepping into the shower set on sonics, Spock rinsed the cloth again and wiped Jim’s cum and an appalling amount of precum from his stomach. Then he gave only the briefest wipe down to where his cock was back to being safely tucked away. Jim stepped awkwardly out of the shower stall as Spock stepped in, trying not to hunch in on himself beneath Spock’s assessing gaze.

He left the fresher, left Spock, and went to his closet where the spare sheet sets were kept on the shelf above his hangers of clothes. Tired again, and thrumming numbly, he only bothered with grabbing another topsheet. The pillowcases were fine, seeing as the only remaining pillow on the bed had been under Spock’s head at the time, and the fitted sheet was just sweat-damp. So he returned to his bed, retrieved the pillow on the floor, and tossed the shook out sheet onto the bed in a pile.

Behind him, the door to the fresher slid open, closed, and then there was the hum of the replicator. Spock came around the partition with two glasses of cool, delicious water to find Jim staring dumbly at his own bed. Probably sensing that Jim’s mind had drifted off, Spock offered him a water by touching the side of the glass to the back of the hand still holding onto one edge of the sheet. Jim blinked, saw the water, took it with his free hand, and stared at it.

“I suggest we climb back into bed and nap,” Spock murmured. “It is early yet, and I find that the prospect of lying back down with you is much more appealing than any possible duties I might complete today.”

Jim frowned at him, noticing he had already finished his water.

“Who are you and what have you done with my First Officer?” Jim joked, mustering up part of a smile, unsure how to take this side of Spock but enjoying it nonetheless. Spock met his gaze, open and serious.

“He has been put away so that I may unapologetically spend time with my t’hy’la.”

Jim averted his gaze and gulped down his entire glass of water before throwing himself face down onto his bed. Not the best avoidance tactic since Spock just took his glass and set both aside before climbing over Jim onto the other side of the bed, laying down on his back.

And, hell, if Spock was seriously going to take a nap, Jim wouldn’t stand for being uncomfortable while doing it. With some determined wiggling, he had them both under the clean sheet he’d tossed on the bed and he had cuddled up into Spock’s side, head pillowed on that space between shoulder and chest. He put his hand on Spock’s chest and decided he might as well add in a leg too, hooking one over Spock’s knee and tucking the arch of his foot against the inside of Spock’s calf.

With a heavy sigh, he let himself relax.

They laid there long enough he started dozing off, forcing his mind to float happily away from anything that might be even slightly disconcerting or negative. To just enjoy what he had in front of him while he had it. And he would have fallen asleep perfectly content that way if Spock hadn’t gently curled his fingers around his wrist and held on, if idle fingers hadn’t started circling the ball of his shoulder.

The epiphany— Could it be called that if he knew that he had left it somewhere deep and ignored and hidden and desperately intentionally forgotten? It was a truth he had made himself refuse to acknowledge. Was it an epiphany?

No, it was definitely more like forced insight.

His eyes snapped open and it tumbled out of his mouth, whisper-quiet in rapture and terror.

“I love you,” he breathed, hardly holding himself back from bolting.

Spock’s hand picked up from where it rested loosely around his wrist, and two fingers were under his chin, tilting his head, guiding him up as Spock dipped his own chin down to meet him.

“Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, t’hy’la,” Spock stated back, and it was like he was saying, _“I know.”_

Jim lifted himself up, feeling like maybe he had been waiting for that. He hovered over Spock for a beat of his heart, loud in his ears. Maybe they both had been waiting for it, from the other.

Their lips brushed and hovered. Jim inhaled, their mouths slotted together, and he sighed.

This syrupy slow meeting and parting of lips was what he had considered for their first kiss in the handful of seconds he had been afforded to even think about it. They took their time, moving languorously and just feeling the warmth between them, the tingling of their skin coming in contact.

When Jim pulled away, he was shaking. One arm trembled from exertion but the rest of him was doing it because of something else entirely.

“My Jim,” Spock breathed, cupping his face. “What distresses you?”

Suddenly, it was like all the air was sucked out of the room and Jim found his mind hitting panic-flight mode. He had to go. He had to—

There was a thing. And that thing was a weight in his chest and a clawing gremlin in his mind. It needed to be free. _He_ had to be free. He needed to peel his skin off and let it out. He had to get rid of the thing. Run or get rid of the thing. He couldn’t be touching Spock.

Jim flung himself back, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling his arms around them.

“Jim.”

Spock lunged for him and Jim had to resist the urge to fling himself across his quarters. He was also trying to resist the urge to claw at his skin or to punch something or to pull his hair out or— fuck he felt like he was spiraling out of control,  like his mind was a fucking hurricane.

“Don’t touch me,” he yelped, and maybe it came out harsher than he had intended but it kept Spock from making contact.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset,” Jim begged, whimpering, wanting to reach out but completely unable. “I can’t stand it when you’re upset. It’s not you. Trust me on this. It’s me! It’s just me. I can’t right now. I have to tell you something and I can’t wait and I’m freaking out just a lot right now because I feel like I’m going to-to- suffocate on everything before I can do anything—”

“My Jim,” Spock interrupted softly. “T’hy’la, you are working yourself into a fit. I am not upset. Please, try to take a deep breath and calm yourself. I will refrain from touching you, but I will not leave. Please, do not think to ask me to.”

“I wouldn’t, Spock. I wouldn’t.” Jim shook his head emphatically, clenching his eyes shut. He tried to take a deep breath, coughed. Couldn’t get the breath out. It was stuck.

“Then, I promise I will remain and listen until you have spoken your piece,” Spock murmured reassuringly. “Let me help you, t’hy’la. Tell me what you need, my Jim.”

Jim coughed again, wheezing. He pressed the heel of one hand hard into his chest and tried to take a breath so deep it hurt his ribs and he thought he might swallow some of it and puke (augh, puking). He held it, plastered his tongue to the roof of his mouth and focused on the pounding of his heart, the constriction at the base of his throat, the ache all the way down through his lungs into his heart. He held it so long his eyes watered and when he let it out it was with a great series of dry coughs.

But when he finally took a deep, normal breath and let it out on a heavy sigh his chest felt less tight, his brain less tilt-a-whirly, his muscles less spring-loaded, and his joints less hair-trigger twitchy.

“I’m okay,” he breathed. He closed his eyes and double-touched his thumbs to the tips of each finger on both hands - pinky to ring to middle to index, once all the way back down.

“I’m okay,” he repeated louder, trying to drown out the little voice in his head reminding him that the last time he’d had to do this was _‘sooo looooong ago, you were doing so well, what is wrong with you, why are you this way???’_

With one last deep breath he squeezed his hands into fists and curled his toes tight, he clenched them as hard as he could and counted backwards from ten. On one, he released the breath and let go of all of the tension and panic and fear.

“Jim?” He heard Spock speak quietly, so near but not touching. Thank you, thank youthankyou. There was a tense question hovering between them, unvoiced.

“I’m not okay, Spock,” Jim whispered, finally opening his eyes and meeting Spock’s concerned, dark gaze with those coyly-tilted Vulcan brows pulled together. Spock frowned harder and Jim got it.

“I’ve kind of, in a way, always been really good at that whole faking-it-until-you’re-making it thing,” Jim explained, his throat tingly hot. A little itchy-dry.

Before he could say anything else, before Spock decided how he would respond to that, the vulcan was on his feet and on the other side of Jim quarters, hidden except as a vague, blurry figure beyond the opaque partition. He returned with more water that he thrust into Jim’s hand.

Jim hesitantly took it as he understood that Spock had sensed or heard or saw his discomfort and jumped to remedy it.

“I can’t have you touching me when I tell you,” he said with a touch of realization. No matter how much Spock might want to try to comfort him. No matter how much Jim might want to lean into him. Jim couldn’t have him in his head to see or feel or taste or smell or hear or..... To be so exposed as though he were living it... Jim couldn’t do that. Not to himself or to Spock.

Maybe one day.

Or maybe never. Maybe Jim would carry it to his grave (and probably bury the archive of it and all related material deep within Starfleet’s databases before then).

“Only share with me what you desire to share, ashayam,” Spock reassured, carefully taking a seat cross-legged on the corner of the bed. “I admit that I am curious and concerned about what you have to say, but if telling me is damaging in some way, do not feel obligated.”

Jim cut a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and shifted around until he could prop himself back against the bulkhead. Spock hovered in his peripherals but Jim was staring through the partition in front of him.                                                       

“It’s not exactly that easy, Spock. It’s something you _should_ know. Because...”

_‘Because you’re one of my closests friends.’ ‘Because you’re family.’ ‘Because I love you.’ ‘Because you said we’re soulmates and if that’s true...’_

“Because... moving forward from here, you need to know.”

There was a still, statuesque silence between them, almost like a living entity gone cold and hollow in the space from Jim’s body to Spock’s.

“When I told Bones, it was because he signed off on becoming my primary physician. We’d been friends for a while at that point and I felt like he needed to know. And _I_ needed, absolutely, to know that I could trust him _for sure_.”

How to make Spock understand? How did Jim explain that if he didn’t say something now, he never would? How could Jim organize the tangle of fear and vulnerability and hurt and frustration into words that made sense? What could he say?

“Lying is basically second nature to me. Lies of omission especially. It’s so much easier to just...not say anything than to force myself to say something important. You reach out, you get burned or cut or worse in my experience.

“So I let people come to their own conclusions. It’s too difficult to correct them anyway, and once a person has decided, you don’t change their mind for them. It’s...kind of manipulative and I hate that I’m like that. I hate that I’m so good at it, that I often do it to myself without even realizing. I hate that it’s always the first course of action my mind jumps to, to twist a situation through omission and misdirection.

“I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to feel like I _have_ to be like that. I’ve had to recondition myself into not doing it, into being _honest_. So for me, it’s a matter of principle, really. I need to tell you to _prove_ to myself that I can trust you; you need to know because you need to understand the clusterfuck you’re getting into with me at this point, and I need to force myself to step up and _be honest_ with you.”

Spock nodded once, a minute dip of his head to show he comprehended Jim’s line of reasoning. Jim sighed.

“Keeping with that thread though, I have to admit that I have no idea where to start. How to even begin. What is necessary?”

Jim remembered the water in his hand then and took a sip, more for something to do than actually wanting a drink. He rocked from one side to the other in a subtle sidle closer to the wall.

“What is irrelevant?” He asked himself more than anything. Should he just get it out there? Should he lead up to it? Should he build it like a story, try to weave everything together to make sense from the outside?

“Well, you could always start at the beginning, and the rest should come until you reach the end.” Spock’s voice drifted softly in the near silence of Jim’s quarters, like a floating curl of smoke.

“I-”

Jim closed his mouth. He wanted to laugh. Just a little. And he felt a brief urge to cry. Kind of.

What should he do?

“The long-short of it, I guess, is that…” He faltered. Where was he going? “My mom wasn’t around much when I was a kid, you see. Emotionally, for the first few years of my life, she was distant I guess. That’s what everyone says. And from what little I remember, that makes sense. I don’t remember her leaving the first time. I remember living with my grandparents. My dad’s parents. Grandpa Tiberius was... He cried a lot at first. I remember him hugging my brother and me close and crying a lot. Grandma Aylia was just quiet. I remember that, and the first time my mother came home. We all went to the shuttle station to watch her come in from San Francisco so we could pick her up.

“But after that she just wasn’t around much. She didn’t go very far or for very long, but she came and went a lot. And then she remarried. It... After _that_ it was like she tried to stay gone as long as she could. We were left with her husband who was basically a glorified babysitter, and he wasn’t very good at it. Sammy- Sam and I didn’t see our grandparents a lot after that.”

Jim fingered the topsheet with idle fingers, suddenly feeling too exposed, too naked when before he hadn’t even noticed. He dragged part of it over his lap and covered everything from the navel down.

“And this is all relevant. Trust me. It’s... You have to understand how I got there, first. I don’t really want to get into details but it’s important. Okay? I know it doesn’t seem like I’m going anywhere with this yet, but I— There’s a reason. Alright?”

Jim didn’t wait for confirmation from Spock.

“Anyway. Mom wasn’t around, my stepdad was an asshole, and Sam... I wasn’t affected like Sam because I was still young enough that I thought I could just be really, really good - at everything - and maybe things would just work out. Sam was four years older than me so he and Frank fought a lot more. Sam didn’t have that buffer. Like I did. And one day he decided enough was enough.

“He left. Frank had just gotten a message from mom that she was going to be gone longer than expected. Months longer. Frank got pissed. He took it out on us, like usual, and Sam told him to fuck off. Then he _just fucking_ _did it_ , fucked off and left me with Frank.”

One of Jim’s hands clutched the water glass in his hand, the other twisted in the topsheet.

Sam had just fucking walked away from him, he’d said that _Jimmy_ would be o _kay_ because he _always was_ , because he was _doing everything right_ and _obeying_ orders. Keep your head down and shut up _as usual_. Standing out only for being overwhelmingly a good kid, because he was ahead of every kid his age in podunk Iowa. No one who mattered gave a crap about him, and no one who gave a crap about him mattered. Jimmy had never been okay, he just got really good at faking it. Really early.

“There was this stupid fucking car, an antique, that used to be my dad’s. It was mom’s after he died. But she never really... When she was around more, we would go for drives in it. She taught us how to drive it, before our feet could even reach the old pedals. Frank did the same in the beginning. Before he resented us. When he still thought my mom might love him, I guess. When he was putting in the effort.

“After mom called and Sam left... Frank wanted me to wash it, and he was going to sell it. That might have even been the reason him and Sam really got into it that day. I don’t really remember. It’s weird, how some things we remember with crystal clarity and others are just hazy recollections, even if they’re minutes apart. ...Humans, anyway. I imagine Vulcans have better recall.”

Jim snorted. Huffed, really. Like something that tried to be a laugh but died before it even manifested.

“So I was cleaning and I was just getting more and more pissed off. And I was sitting there in the driver’s seat, wiping down something and the keys just fell, right from the flip-visor to my lap. We never had to worry about the car getting stolen, even in town, so the keys were always left in it. Only like, one person out of two hundred had any idea how to even start up an antique car, much less actually drive one.

“So the keys were in my lap and I— It’s like something just snapped. I was staring at them when everything hit. Mom wasn't coming back. Sam had left for good. I was stuck with Frank. And he was going to just sell my dad's car like he had some sort of fucking right to it. And _I was fucking cleaning it for him_. I never put up any kind of fucking fight. I just let everyone walk all over me.

“And I decided then and there I was fucking done. It was like, ‘fine, _fuck. them_. They didn't give a shit so why should I?’ I trashed the car. Literally. Like tossing it in a dumpster, I drove it off a cliff into the quarry. I only survived because I bailed out at the last second. Just barely. I almost followed the car. Half of my body was just...dangling over the cliff. And I wasn’t afraid. I knew I should have been, but all I could feel was this sick sort of satisfaction.”

Jim paused to give a sardonic chuckle. He could still _feel_ how his chest felt pressed against the hard stone beneath him, the way his heart thumped against the arm he used to pull himself back over. How his stomach swooped when he glanced over his shoulder at the remains of the car behind him.

“For the first time in my whole fucking life I _wanted_ to fight. I _wanted_ to go back home and see just how fucking pissed Frank would be when he heard the news. When he realized the car was completely fucking wrecked at the bottom of a fucking quarry. I _wanted_ him to take a swing at me.

“I remember that so clearly. It was probably the adrenaline and then the- the _acute_ anger I felt. Anyway, I pulled myself up and faced the copdrone that had been chasing me and when it asked for my name all I could think was that this was it. I was just so fucking done. I was... There aren’t any words. Seething? Pissed? Furious? I was every level of anger and I just wanted everyone else to be as ticked off as I was.”

Jim gritted his teeth against the whispers and echoes of it. It was a lick of fire under his heart, a band around his lungs daring him to snap. He was losing the present moment to it. He took a deep breath through his teeth and unclenched his jaw.

It was spite. Pure, unadulterated. He’d always been motivated by it. In little ways. When Winona ignored him, he had taken it as a challenge to be better, to be smarter, to be more like _him_ \- then as little like _him_ \- as possible, to get her attention. When people told him he couldn’t, he proved he could, bigger and badder and better than everyone else. Then when people started to get used to that, he had to prove them wrong again.

“Anyway, I was put in lockup. And then no one came to get me so I had a long couple weeks to stew. See the deal was, my mom owned the car and she wasn’t going to press charges, but I’d also broken the law and the government organization that owned the quarry was pretty pissed. Frank was fuming and apparently really drunk. Which made _me_ happy. But he also refused to get me and mom couldn’t come back down to do anything about any of it. So I was a temporary ward of the state.”

Jim heaved a breath.

“My mom, she _was_ in conference calls, though, trying to figure out what to do about me an my situation. The whole time. She was finding lawyers to talk to and trying to find a way to get me off the hook, which was kind of fucked up, but I mean, there were several charges filed against me and, I guess, talks that I should have been tried as an Intermediary Adolescent instead of as a juvenile. As an example or some shit, a warning. So my mom was trying and apparently, being an officer in Starfleet had a lot of swaying power. Then, since I was a dead hero’s son _and_ it was my first offense, the judge had been open to options other than being sent to baby-jail, a juvenile detention center. Which is where I would have ended up, unless I was charged as an IA. Then I would have gone to an Adolescent Secure Confinement Camp, which is like if a prison and a work camp met with a boarding school.

“The way the lawyer that came to talk to me put it was that I’d fucked up but not bad enough that the ramifications had to screw me over, as long as they could provide alternatives for my sentencing. I had grown into a real smartass during the whole thing so I threw out some offhand comment about just dumping me on a planet in the middle of nowhere and just forgetting about me. I was being snide and sarcastic, but the lawyer actually took it seriously or something.”

Jim paused. He knew that it was now. Now or never. And things would change. To think that they wouldn’t, that was just naive. He was about to shift Spock's view of him, and maybe possibly his worldview.

He steeled himself, forced his heart not to start racing before he could get the words out, and wrangled his voice into a controlled, even level.

“From there, my hearing was set and I went in front of the judge, and that was the first time I ever heard about Tarsus Four.”

There it was. He’d said it. Or not quite. He’d said enough for Spock to start building up a rapid understanding.

Spock was unmoving, his mouth a flat line of stoicism and his unreadable dark eyes coolly gazing past Jim - right through him. Jim had to look away, down, at his hands. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. Or maybe it was, and that’s what hurt the most. He swallowed to dispel the knot at the base of this throat.

“I was on Tarsus Four, Spock.” He confirmed in a crackling whisper, the direct admission immediately cracking open an aged well-of-emotion that still hurt, to this day - over a decade later - to access, like bubbling acid inside him.

He nearly laughed just to kill the dead air around him. Laughed, to keep from crying. Spock was only the third person in his life he had willingly told.

“Well, as far as big reveals, that one kind of sucked,” he murmured to himself and took a sip of water, trying to clear his throat.

“They really talked it up, ya know,” he went on, louder. “Made it seem like I’d go there and learn my lesson and better myself as a person, it was just a slap on the wrist, ‘don’t worry, you’ll only be gone a year at most.’ My mom tried to make it seem like some kind of big fucking adventure. I-”

Jim’s voice cut out before he could continue, the hard knot returning to the base of his throat, bigger and suddenly choking him. The detachment he had been trying to carefully maintain was abruptly chased away by the stifling rush of _pure hurt_ that was attached to the idea of his mother - the concept, the ideal, the reality. Never more so in moments like this. Like that. He had to rapidly blink to clear his eyes and take a deep breath before continuing.

“I guess that probably showed that she loved me. In her own way. Even though it didn’t feel like it most of the time.” Jim cleared his throat.

Winona had a complicated sort of relationship with him. Jim could— He _understood_ her. Which meant that despite all of his hurt and anger and resentment and _everything_ , he couldn’t fault her. He _hated_ her. He _hated_ that _he loved her_. He absolutely abhorred the fact that even as an adult he still wished that she could _just love him_ , for him, unconditionally, like she had Sam, like parents were _supposed_ to love their kids. Their relationship would always be _“I love you but—”_

“Anyway, that’s a separate issue all on its own. The point was, I was going to Tarsus Four to a podunk farming colony so I could work the fields, or whatever. I was enrolled in their prestigious school, which was the only reason I was actually allowed to go, and lived in the dorms and every day after classes were out I was escorted to a farm wherever someone needed a hand and I worked until sundown.”

Here, Jim had to pause, to actively try to remember what it was like before the genocide and blood and bargaining and hunger. It hadn’t been all pain and suffering and sometimes, that’s what actually hurt the most about the whole experience.

“The _really weird_ part about the whole situation was that I actually _liked_ it. Everything was basically independent study and lectures. I felt challenged in all my schoolwork. And working in the fields made me strong and I had real experience with things. I was learning how to maintain and fix equipment, how to care for different crops, how to keep the soil right for growth. I even got to help with the animals sometimes, too. And I was able to actually incorporate all that into my schoolwork for classes. There were papers and projects and- I don’t know. I was excelling against people on my level for once. I was at the top because I fucking earned it. I was pushing myself farther than I’d ever had to before. And there were people who _gave a shit about me_ for once. Not because they needed me for something or because they had to for some reason, but _because of me_.

“I had real friends I could have conversations with and my teachers were genuinely interested in me. It even turned out I had family there, actually. An aunt and an uncle, no cousins. They were my mom’s family. Didn’t seem to like me much. I met them all of twice while I was there. But still. At least they even wanted to see me in the first place, you know. I would never have even known they existed without them asking around. Mom sure as fuck hadn’t mentioned them. Maybe she had been planning on using them to keep an eye on me other something. Whatever.”

Jim coughed, more out of shame for revealing too much too quick than he needed to. He was coming off way too needy and, yeah, he really needed to get to the actual point. Before he said something really stupid or too close to the heart. He was already unloading a fuckton. It didn’t need to be a fuckton and one.

“So, things were good. I’d kind of reinvented myself. I was still me but like, way more mouthy, and I’d decided before even arriving to not take any shit from anyone anymore so I had a reputation to uphold. I was like a badboy-genius. People liked me and I was twelve when I got there, so I was just starting to think maybe I’d like to start figuring out the whole dating thing. There were girls wanting to hold my hand, enbies[*](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9196442/chapters/28735076#chapter_21_endnotes) that flirted with me, and this boy who kissed me on my thirteenth birthday who- well, anyway. I _liked_ where I was at. I liked who I was.”

Jim drank more water, trying really hard not to look at Spock. He couldn’t again. Not after last time. Not when thoughts of that boy who had only been a year older than him were at the forefront of his mind. Not when all Jim could see, now when he thought of him, was every good moment overlaid by the images of his thin corpse eaten inside-out by the planet’s rat-equivalents.

“...My time came and went for my sentence, and... Well, no one came to get me. I got a notice on my padd through the school. A flimsy was even delivered to my dorm from the City Hall with a stamp from the governor on it. I assumed my mom got one too, but no one came to get me. No one gave me a notice that they would, either. No one asked me if I wanted to go home, even. There was just nothing. Dead air. And this was before communications were knocked out.

“I was. . .disappointed—” It had fucking hurt, actually. “—but I had also decided that if it happened, I would just shut my mouth. So I lied when people wondered what was going to happen to me. I told them my mom decided to let me re-enroll and stay. I continued to live in the dorms as usual, since school was all year long on Tarsus with only short breaks between semesters and for holidays. Then I hacked into the systems to legitimize my lie for at least another year, hacked Starfleet records to copy my mom’s holosig to sign off on all of it, and I changed my name in the system to JT Kirk. It was something a teacher had called me when I told her I didn't wan to be called 'James' and it just stuck. So I went with it. Nobody on Tarsus knew me as anything else.

“It was pretty quickly after the first semester of the new school year started that things got weird. It was like we’d just sidestepped into another universe without realizing. That’s the easiest way to explain it now. Back then, we just knew something was off. All of us kids, anyway. Adults do this funny thing where they justify everything, so they won’t see something is wrong until it’s too late because they were too busy justifying all the signs pointing toward the disaster barreling down the road toward them. Kids don’t do that. They haven’t been taught how to yet. Haven’t quite let go of the ability to trust their gut instincts.”

For a minute, Jim wished the water in his hand was a beer and that he was at least a little buzzed, that there was a label to peel from glass so he could ignore Spock, unmoving like a gargoyle, ignore what was coming from his own mouth, ignore everything he was trying _so_ hard not to feel.

“What do you— ...Spock?”

Jim hated that he needed to make sure. Needed an acknowledgment.

“Yes, Jim?” Spock answered, very quietly and very. . .blankly.

“You know about Tarsus, right?” Jim asked, voice choked just a little and he hated it.

“Yes, Jim, I am aware.”

“Yeah, funny fucking thing about all that bullshit? It’s all a fucking lie. A coverup. Sure there was a fungus, and yeah, Kodos killed a bunch of people, but it was _so much worse._ ”

Jim laughed. Or maybe he sobbed. Maybe he should have smothered it with his hand so even he wouldn't know which.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this. _Any_ of it. You’re not even technically supposed to know I was _there_ without written permission. What I’m doing right now? It’s treason. I’m breaking contracts right now. Legally binding contracts to Starfleet, to the Federation. Because this can’t get out. None of it. Not yet. There were a lot more survivors than was let on. We all had to sign shit. We couldn’t— _can’t_ talk about it until the statute of secrecy is up and the NDAs expire. That’s why Bones had to get permission. There was a whole fucking review board and background checks on him. People had to interview him without him knowing to provide character references. Just so my primary physician could have full access to medical history!”

Jim forced himself to relax his hold on the glass between his hands, not realizing he was gripping it so hard until he looked down and saw how white his knuckles were, how red his palms were. He probably would have broken it already, if it had been actual glass. As it were, everything for space travel - and _especially_ the Starfleet commissioned 'crafts - was made to withstand basic breakage. One ensign had slammed her face into her console when inertial dampeners had glitched during evasive maneuvers a few months ago and had cracked her eye socket. The console had been a bit blood-smeared but had remained unaffected. The touch sensitivity hadn’t even been affected beyond a slight recalibration to reset it.

Good. A good distraction. No one had died during that encounter. The worst injuries had been unfortunate accidents in engineering. Everyone had recovered excellently from that.

He lifted his glass to his lips and chugged the rest of the water, which was most of it.

“People said Tarsus Four was hell. The media, people on the net with _Opinions_. Tarsus wasn’t hell. There are no innocents in hell. Babies don’t go to hell, Spock. Children don’t die in hell. They weren’t there. They have no idea. Besides, none of them had been given the truth. It was all truth-adjacent bullshit. Just enough that Starfleet wasn’t brushing it under the rug, but not the actual facts.

“You see, a lot, _a **fucking** lot_, of the survivors were kids. After the initial killings, it was like twenty percent Kodos supporters, forty-five percent kids, and thirty-five percent people just keeping their heads down to survive. And the youngest kids were toddlers. Babies, Spock. I made a deal. I made deal after fucking deal, an endless existence of fucking deals, to make sure those kids were safe. I had this information after Starfleet finally came. A fuckton of information about what happened. I knew they wanted it, so I used it as leverage. Constantly. I held it over the head of every single stupid-ass fuck who came to speak to me about duty and nobility and _fucking helping them_. Like I _owed_ them.

“I was able to convince some high ranking officers to keep everything really important a secret. Nothing public. Not until the youngest kid had aged out. They wanted it to be eighteen, when Starfleet legally recognizes humans on earth to be adults, but I wouldn’t let up until it was moved to twenty-five standard years. I was one of the older kids. I’m just barely past that threshold. There are _years_ left until any of has to deal with it. I wanted them, the kids, to be able to get some distance from everything before it was thrown back in their faces, to prepare. This way, they wouldn’t have to grow up with something like that attached to their name and everything they did or didn’t do.”

Jim dropped his glass and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to keep the tears he could feel building from leaking out. After everything they had lived through, they deserved that peace, at least.

“They were _mine_ , Spock. For all intents and purposes, those kids belonged to me. They were _my kids. My_ responsibility. I did _everything_ I could to feed them and keep them warm and safe and as happy as they could be, all things considered.”

He took several deep, shuddering breaths. He shivered. He tried not to lose it as his seams were splitting. He felt like nothing could hurt him more than his love for his kids.

“How many children, Jim?” Spock’s voice interrupted. Jim flinched, mind immediately jumping to every tiny body that quit working and every small light that flickered out in sad, wide eyes. How many had died because he hadn’t been able to save them?

“What?” He croaked.

“How many children survived with you? How many escaped the planet because of you?” Spock pressed gently, a note of steel within the finely woven thread of his voice. It was the most emotion he’d displayed the whole time Jim had been speaking.

Jim shook his head.

“It wasn’t just me—”

“How many?” Spock’s voice was unflinching.

“...Fifty-three. Not including me, fifty-three kids, a handful of adults with us.”

“That is fifty-three children who lived, who you saved, who were given a second chance when those whom they depended on failed them. That is an accomplishment at thirteen years of age that most adults could not have handled.”

Jim shook his head again, more emphatically.

“I was fourteen. I was fourteen by the time Starfleet came. And there had been eighty-nine. At first. Almost a hundred kids out of the nearly fifteen hundred in the colony, a _single_ hundred out of the _seven_ hundred that were slated, a hundred rescued out of the three hundred left who weren’t considered _worthy_ , and I lost a third of them. Thirty-six kids. I wasn’t enough for thirty-six kids.”

Jim sucked in a shuddering, painful breath and held back the sob that almost burst forth.

“Jim. . .”

“Don’t. Just. Just don’t. Okay.”

Jim couldn’t speak. He coughed, tried to clear his throat, took in a sob of a breath.

“Jim. Listen to me,” Spock said, and then continued when Jim began to shake his head again. “No, listen to me. None of that was your fault. You did the best you could with the situation you found yourself in. And your best was, and continues to be, better than not only your peers but those older and higher ranking and more experienced than you. You should have never been placed in a situation where it was your job to care for even one child, much less eighty-nine.”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a sob with one hand. It was true, untrue. It didn’t matter. It had happened. He’d failed thirty-six kids and the families that would have claimed them if he had been able to do more to keep them alive. It was his fault they hadn’t survived. He should have done more. There had been more he could have done, and he hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to, and they hadn’t lived.

“T’hy’la, please, may I touch you now?” Spock asked very quietly and so gently, desperately. “I wish to embrace you. May I?”

Jim flinched. He tried not to. Knew Spock had seen it and wished, hoped, pleaded that he didn’t count it against himself. It wasn’t him. It really, really wasn’t. It was all Jim. Jim’s fault. Jim’s problems and issues.

“No. No, not yet. I’m not done. I haven’t told you e-everything yet. I— I— haven’t—”

Oh, great. And now he was really crying. At just the thought and accompanying fear of telling Spock the rest.

“Please, Jim, let us take a break and return to this.”

“No.”

“You are becoming a worrying level of distressed. Please, t’hy’la. We can—”

“No! Spock, I—” Jim’s breath hitched, choked him. “I have to do it now. Like a loose tooth.”

Jim took several gulping breaths.

“I just have to breathe,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “Just breathe.”

And then he had to organize his thoughts. Recall where he left off. Figure out how to get from point A to point B.

Breathe.

He wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“So,” he coughed a bit. “There were these... They were tests. All kinds of tests. They were introduced as new standardized tests specifically for the colony, to measure how well the community was doing compared to the rest of the Federation standards. Which sounded fishy from the get-go. And it was— They were for everything. Endurance testing, strength testing, agility testing both physically and mentally, intensive brain gymnastics... And everyone had to get physicals. Weirdly invasive physicals. They looked over everything inside and out. We were all really uncomfortable with it but since _we all_ had to go through it we just kind of laughed it off, you know. Because if we all had to do it, it wasn’t that bad.

“Then came the blight. I started noticing it before anyone else. At first, it was just the flowers in a few people’s gardens. Negligible. The fungus. . .”

Jim felt himself detaching again as he focused on something else. His fingers felt numb and he touched them twice down the line with his thumbs. His nose and his lips and his cheeks - his face - lost feeling. No pins. No needles. Just absence. He shuddered. If his eyes had been open he would have stared at his arms until they felt like his again. This was better though. Better than what he’d been slipping into before.

_Just focus on the facts, Jim._

“It started at the base of the plant, near the soil. It bubbled up from beneath the ground like little white blisters. Then, as it grew, it fanned out, like upturned, coned petals. Each little blister popped out farther up the plant until the whole thing was covered. The base would be just those cone-shaped curls, and the top would be spotted. All along the stalks. The blisters slowly grew into cones while the cones at the base began to pool and leak. It was a thick, dark brown ooze. It smelled like curdled dairy, sour. By the time the whole plant died, it reeked like rotten meat. Scientists on the colony were working to discover what it was when it was just the decorative flowers and plants that people had.

“Then I saw it on the edge of a field I was working in. The patch was isolated and we burned it down. It didn’t help. That whole crop had to be razed and burned, the soil scorched. A few more fields had the same treatment. We thought that would be the end of it. Then Kodos made his first announcement.

“Food was to be gathered up and rationed. All viable crops were to be harvested as early as possible and placed in large silos with all of the extra food in the colony. Households were to tally their food stores and report them to City Hall so all the extra food could be distributed equally. Each week. People reported what they had, and then they were given what they needed. They were sending communications to Starfleet for help.

“That lasted a month.”

Jim sniffed. Twisted the sheet between his fingers. Swallowed dryly.

“People began to wonder why no one was showing up after two weeks. They started trying to send out their own communications. Nothing was getting through. We were told it was an ion front passing between us and the nearest Starfleet relay station. And you know what is really just epically fucked up about that? It wasn’t a lie. There actually was an ion storm. It was there for three weeks, blocking all communication. And Starfleet knew about it. But by the time it was gone, communication was knocked out all over the colony. Kodos was the only one who had access to working tech that could send out any information.

“So a month after rationing began, and two weeks after the whole communications thing, that was when everything came to a head. There were a few fights before that and everything was tense. Nobody felt like they could trust anybody. School was cancelled. A lot of kids went back home. The kids who were there from off planet like me were put under a curfew by the dorm administrators.

“Then we were rounded up.”

A chill passed through Jim as he remembered the wake up call that morning, the sleepy way he and four other hungry boys were told to get dressed and then herded from the dorms, meeting with three girls and one enbie from the next building over, the eight of them being led by two police officers to the activities arena for the town. They had been assembled in the center, on the green, surrounded by the tiered seating. Blocked in.

“And that’s when Kodos made his second official announcement.”

Jim cleared his throat.

“ _‘As you all know, our small community has faced many tribulations recently, from the blight on our crops to the ion storm blocking out distress signals to Starfleet. We have been tested the many years we have cultivated our little colony. As one, we have thrived and we have struggled. As one, we have proven ourselves strong and resourceful and resilient. For every trial we have weathered, as one, we have come back better._

“ _‘This will be no different. We have faced adversity and we will rise from our own ashes like a phoenix, reborn and made stronger. The revolution will be successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean a slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence the majority of you to death. Your execution is so ordered, signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus Four._

 _“‘For those of you who show promise, you are given a chance to rise up and prove yourself worthy of seeing our bright, new world. In one month’s time, one hundred of you who have survived and shown the most potential, duteousness, and yoke will be spared the slow death of beyond the haven. You will be considered as valuable as your natural betters. This is a mercy. But it comes tempered with vicissitude. Your execution on sight is so ordered, Kodos, Governor of Tarsus Four. I hope the best of you make it into our basilica of renaissance.’_ ”

There was silence so deafening that Jim swore he could hear the ship breathing, alive around them. It stretched for several long moments. It went on so long, Jim’s hands began to shake.

“Spock?” He whispered, determined to go on but unable to make his voice louder, to organize his words into sentences into thoughts into an explanation.

“Jim?” Spock’s voice matched his in volume.

“You said in my dream that I was in a cold place. Snowy.”

Jim paused for confirmation. Spock made no noise, and if he nodded, Jim didn’t see.

“Tarsus was a lot like Earth. The plants were just off enough to be alien to me, the creatures weren’t quite right, the sky was the wrong shade no matter what color it was, the air never smelled like I expected, but the axis tilted, so we had the same seasons. It was an Earth summer when I drove the car into the quarry, and an Earth summer when I was sent to Tarsus. I arrived in their Spring. My birthday was during their fall. The days were two hours longer. The yearly cycle a few weeks more than Earth’s. They measured their school year with the planting year which means I was there right after it started.

“That first year passed, I turned thirteen, and things were okay. Kodos gave that speech nearing the end of the summer. He killed nine thousand people that day. They were partitioned off from the rest of us by forcefield. I watched as nine thousand people were nerve gassed, dropping into terrified, whimpering piles before being shocked to death. I had friends over there. My aunt and uncle were over there...”

Jim’s voice had been steadily getting quieter and softer until the words were barely floating from his tongue. He swallowed but there was no moisture to wet his throat.

“After that, everything was chaos. I don’t— I wish I didn’t know the numbers. Just over fifteen thousand colonists. Nine thousand dead in minutes. Before that, handfuls of them were disappearing, dying, being taken in. I wish it were easier to track. I wish I could just say ‘this is what happened at this time and after that another thing happened’ but the reality is... Everything about it was a mess.

“People were being killed, but at the time it was a just a rumor, something said to make us afraid. It wasn’t a lie. None of us knew until it was too late. And then _nine thousand people_ were wiped from existence. Everything they might have been, might have touched, might have loved... All of it was gone in an instant with them.

“I was slated because of my allergies. They were too numerous. Kodos wanted me kept because I was smart. And then he wanted me killed later because I was _too_ smart. Delinquent. I was on the side that he called merciful. Out of the twenty-five hundred of us, he had a place only for a single hundred.

“The catch was that we had to kill. How else to ensure your place, but to make sure there wasn't anyone else around to take it? Every single other person instantly became an enemy in that moment as the gas was settling over the bodies of thousands of our friends and neighbors and family. Age didn’t matter. Children were as fair a game as the adults.

“Everyone lost their _goddamned minds_. The guards were mobbed and their weapons were turned on the colonists, people were ganged up on and beat, children were trampled. Some people ran. _I_ ran. People— Kids started following me. I grabbed anyone I could and in the confusion we made it out. We didn’t stop until we were on the other side of the colony, hiding in an empty farmhouse.”

Jim's whispered recollection faltered. There was too much. The memories threatened to overwhelm him. He swallowed several times in a row. Gulped back tears. Tried to breathe normally instead of falling into gasps and sobs.

“People were dead everywhere, Spock. It was messy, so messy. Trying to— Trying to explain, to tell you, to make it understandable... There was so much violence and— and- suddenly people were relying on me in the middle of it all because I was the smartest person in a two mile radius because everyone else was dead! I had no idea what to do. I wasn't _that_ smart. There were others who were smart too, to survive the initial cull. I don't know why they chose me! I didn't want that. I didn't—"

Jim choked back his approaching hysteria with a strangled noise.

“And there’s so much I’m not telling you, leaving out. We’d be here for months if I even tried. My official statement on it all is in video format and it took most of my treatment to finish it. It was just constant interviews and— Everything seems so _neat_ when you learn about history! I remember before Tarsus that history classes always _made sense._ The timelines, the events, the factors and numbers and statistics and- and propaganda... Conclusions and theories and _all of it made sense._

“Even now, looking at it all, reading the investigative reports, the statements and evidence. It’s hard to— to... See it clearly. Eventually, scholars and historians will be able to organize it all into neat little boxes and events on a line. They’ll debate and argue, and it’ll all end up understandable. And it’ll be my life. I’ll be a figure, a number, a statistic. An icon. An event.

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Jim abruptly shut up. Spock was silent.

Jim’s fingers shook. He fisted the sheet in his lap. Pulled it taut between the two points of his fists.

He took a deep breath.

“We weren’t safe. We were attacked. We were caught. Ratted out and turned over. For some reason, we were given to Kodos’ scientists. The kids, anyways. The adults were killed. They did experiments on us. I didn’t know for how long. I don't know what they were trying to learn. It was two weeks. It felt like forever. Then we had a chance to escape.

“We got angry and when the opportunity presented itself, we took it. We were so angry. So scared and hurt, and angry. I felt possessed by it. Like an animal. An unholy demon from the old religious texts.

“There were... There were nine of us that made it out. By then, Kodos’ experiment was over. Another two thousand were dead. We ran into the woods and we didn’t stop until we found a cave system. It was safe and hidden, so we stayed there. We ate the small animals that lived there, raw, until our stomachs stopped hurting. We puked, and we did it again. And when we felt more human, we started venturing back into the developed lands to forage.

“And then we got angry again.”

Jim blinked. The world around him briefly faded out, blurred into that moment when they snapped again.

There had been these siblings. A brother and a sister, close in age, and what looked like another, older brother, dead, blood soaking into the carpet from the way half his skull was caved in. And there had been a group, seven. Older, stronger, adult, mostly male. Reedy, thin, hungry for more than food. Jim’s blood boiled. They had been kids, younger than Jim, younger even than Xuli, who had seen them and stood frozen in the corner. Seven, passing tiny, emaciated bodies around for amusement, pleasure, laughing and sneering at their cries, their struggles, their fear.

The nine of them had burst into the room of the house, a three-door living area. They had surrounded the room, Jim and three others at one door, the other five at the other door. Once inside, they froze. Everyone froze. A few of the men leered. Nobody seemed to have been expecting what they were suddenly face-to-face with. Jim’s blood flash boiled, iced over, hardened. He blacked out.

He blinked again and his mouth was bloodied, dripping it. His knuckles were the same. He was shaking. Couldn’t stop shaking. At his feet, it was the man who— He was gurgling. One side of his face was swollen and bloody. There were scratches on his throat and arms. He was bleeding from his throat. Jim spit. Clenched his aching fists.

Thomas was with the kids, gathered them close and covered them with a blanket. Rulia was at his back, bleeding from her hairline, knuckles matching Jim’s. Troan, Krey, and Jiro were around Thomas, a barrier. Xuli was still in that corner, trembling with wide, tearful eyes. Terrified. She understood too much. Jacquean and Garrhett were causing a racket on the other side of the third door before they burst back through, chests heaving and splattered with blood. Jacquean’s eyebrow was split in the corner, leaking down her face, jaw, throat, into her dark hair, wild around her face. They were the oldest and when three of the group had run to try an escape through the window in the tiny room through the third door, they had given vicious chase.

Seven adults to nine kids.

“There were others like us,” Jim said, surprising himself with how steady his voice was with the way he kept vibrating with pent up... “Escaped, surviving, _scared_. We took them in, made things a little less scary in numbers. The cave became a hideout. It made it harder to find food sometimes, but it gave us tenuous safety. And the nine of us - my friend Thomas; our classmates Rulia, Jiro, Troan, and Krey; little Xuli who I tried to convince to stay behind; Jacquean and Garrhett, who I knew from the fields— the nine of us who escaped together, we fought back every chance we got in every way we could.

“Kodos wanted us dead, thought we were burdens to society. So we lived. We stole, we hacked, we killed, we survived in spite of him and everyone who supported him, and we collected every bit of evidence we could of the things that happened. I made the other eight write everything from our outings down on salvaged padds. I made them keep backups on thumbnail drives and we hid those in the caves. If anything, there would at least be evidence of what had happened, evidence of us.

“We weren’t— Nothing was okay, but at least we were alive and _doing something_.”

This next part...

This is where things became infinitely harder to talk about, to say out loud, to admit to. The first time he’d been so brain fogged, so exhausted and drugged and dissociated from it all, that it had flowed easily once he had started. The second time had been like pulling his finger-and-toe-nails off with pliers - excruciatingly painful, terrifying, frustrating, and drawn-out.

And those were the only times he’d had to. The first time was willing, the second time his trauma specialist had coaxed it out of him bit by bit over the course of months - more than a year. Bones knew from reading about it. He had tried to bring it up all of once. Jim had disappeared for three days. He didn’t try again and only relied on the files he’d been given access to.

Jim cleared his throat, took a deep breath like he was about to sink under water, and plowed on.

“When it began to snow, food got scarce. The animals were all hibernating and their dens were hard to find. The ground started to freeze, so we couldn’t dig up the roots we’d found that were edible. We had picked over the outskirts of the settlement. The only place we had a chance of finding anything else was in the urban sectors. Kodos was still having them patrolled for escapees. And there were still people hiding there. We knew it from coming in contact with a few who refused to come back with us. Smaller groups. Rivals.

“It was so cold and you get hungrier when you’re cold. We had filled the cave with blankets and rugs and pillows. We had created a firepit underneath an open shaft in the ceiling of the main cave. We drank boiled snow and broth from the little vegetation our human stomachs could handle. Our only chance of finding food to survive through winter was if we could get to the sealed food hidden away that hadn’t been gathered up, either by Kodos’ men or other survivors. It wasn’t enough.”

Jim paused, forcing himself not to breathe heavier. He had to get to the end. He wouldn’t be able to if he fell apart in the middle. His voice was hoarse.

“I went a little farther in than we’d been pushing, looking closer to the inner circle for houses that hadn’t been picked clean. Kodos’ patrol forces were in the area. I got careless, thought I was hidden. There was this guy, sweeping the house I was in. He found me. I’d tried to hide but he had found me. And he was going to kill me—’

_JT froze and carefully crawled out from his hiding spot under the nose of a phaser rifle. Outside, JT could hear the other guards sweeping other houses, knew what would come next if the young man in front of him opened his mouth. But JT couldn’t stop him. Not quietly. Not quickly. And JT was alone._

_“Please,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard in the near-deafening silence of the house._

_The man’s hand shook on the trigger. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. JT had no advantage. If the man didn’t act, if he was found out to have let JT free, he would die instead. His life or JT’s and JT knew what he would have done. Maybe. He wished he could say he wouldn’t, definitively. But here he was, and if he had been the one with the upper hand he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have killed the man._

_He didn’t though. Couldn’t rise up and disarm him without possibly alerting the others patrolling. He was alone, weaponless, and on his knees in front of a phaser._

_“Please,” he begged, breathed, closed his eyes and licked his lips and hoped he wasn’t shot._

_When he opened them after a beat he met the gaze of the man, who was staring at his mouth. JT knew that look. Maybe he would live._

“I told him that if he let me go, if he didn’t tell anyone I was there afterward, that I would suck his dick.”

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock croaked, plaintive.

“That was the first time. He told me if I came back in two days, he’d be in that house with food.”

A beat.

“I went back. I kept going because he kept bringing food and I needed it. Thomas found out, followed me. After that, he didn’t let me go alone. Eventually, we needed medication. Some of the younger kids were getting sick. I offered more.

“I figured— ...It was my choice. There’s always a choice. As long as there were alternatives, as long as I always had a choice— It was different. I didn’t _have_ to do it. People, my kids, would have died from sickness. But I _didn’t have to do it_. I did because it was an option. There’s always another option. It just depends on what you’re willing to give up. Keeping them alive was more important. Staying alive was more important. It was an exchange, goods for a service. As long as I was the one making the decision, it wasn’t that bad.”

Jim’s voice broke, cracked on the last word.

“Then he brought someone else along. A buddy or something. Another guard. They had antibiotics and a whole backpack of sealed food. If they both got a turn, it was mine. I think they knew I was protecting others. After Thomas showed up, it was kind of obvious.

“By then, I needed it. The littlest ones, Kevin and Deelia especially, they weren’t doing too good. Four babies had died already between the first time I asked for medication up to that point. There was protein powder and formula and fucking real antibiotics. We needed it so bad at that point.

“That’s when things went south. Thomas... There were others outside. A patrol out looking for them. They’d been gone too long or something, I’d thought. And Thomas heard them coming closer before me. It all happened in a blur. Thomas killed one, the guy who’d been meeting me. Then he knocked his buddy down. We tried to run. We were spotted. I made Thomas take the pack and run, to go back to the caves. I ran the opposite direction. Towards the inner circle. They followed and caught me. By then, the guy’s buddy had joined them.”

 _‘You little fucker! I fucking swear you’ll fucking pay for that! You killed him! He put his fucking neck out to help you, you little fucking slut, and you let your creepy little friend kill him! Oh, you’re so gonna fucking pay for that. We were being_ **_nice_** _, you whore. Now I’m gonna show you just how spoilt you were. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you were dead with your little pussy friend. And this time, you’re not gonna get a fucking thing out of it.’_

“They were pretty pissed that we’d killed one of them. They beat me and dragged me in to see Kodos. He had me cleaned up and sat in a comfy little room with a giant-ass desk, like he was trying to tempt me or threaten me or intimidate me or something. Fuck him, you know. He swept into the fucking room, like he thought he was some divine royal, and started telling me how _glad_ he was that they found me, that I’d survived, how he’d kept an eye on my schooling, my test results, how _unfortunate_ it was that he’d had to slate me.

“And then he tried to fucking convince me to trade places with another, a life of luxury for the death of another. It didn’t matter how much I hated him, how much I hated every single complicit fuck who didn’t fight back. Fuck all of them. But I wasn’t going to do that. Because what if it wasn’t one of them? What if it was a kid who didn’t know any better because their parents were fuckheads? What if it was a parent who had fought for a place just so they could save their kid? Because knowing Kodos, he’d do that. Pick the saddest sob story and shoot them in the back to keep me close.”

Jim gave a sardonic chuckle.

“I told him to go fuck himself with a cactus. He locked me up, maybe hoping I’d come around or something. Fat fucking chance. I broke out two days later and snuck into the place where they controlled the subspace transmissions. I sent an emergency vid to the head of Starfleet Command, the Federation President, and to Commander Winona Kirk.

“Kodos caught me when I tried to find more prisoners afterward. I knew there had to be more, more experiments. Kodos was furious. It only got worse when I told him what I’d done. He threw me into a different, impenetrable cell and let his supporters do whatever they wanted. Then I was left, completely alone. Barely fed. By the end of the week, Starfleet arrived in the middle of a riot and I got out.

“And the last I ever saw of Kodos was him lying in a pool of his own blood, missing most of his face. You see, he had this antique revolver in his office. A reminder of the brutality of man before the Third World War and first contact. He kept it loaded. Fully functional. He had even used it once.

“Phasers are.... So much less visceral. When it comes to killing, a phaser hit is nothing compared to the crack of a bullet. I unloaded every chamber into his head. The first through his eye. The second and third were dead center. I couldn’t stop after that. My ears were ringing and I’d just blanked out.

“That’s how Starfleet found me.”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the surge of emotion, the riptide of memory that threatened the edge of his consciousness.

“So that’s what you saw in that dream. It was Tarsus. I’m terrified of that place. I hate that I am but I can’t shake it. I can control it most of the time, but it sneaks up on me. I know I’m not exactly fit. But I’ve made it this far. And I’ll keep going as long as I can, until I die if I have to. I’ll never be okay. But I’m fine because I’ve fought really fucking hard to get there, despite that it all comes back around to fuck me up every once in awhile.

“And at this point, I can pretty much just ride it out, let it run its course. Which is what I’ve been trying to do. For some reason, this time it’s been a lot harder.”

Jim paused, hesitated. He was unsure whether it would be beneficial to voice this next part.

“Maybe I’m overwhelmed,” he tentatively continued. “Between getting sick and everything that followed, maybe it’s just too much for me to process subconsciously, so it’s taking longer, being more difficult.”

Spock made a soft, pained noise, the kind that felt like a punch to the center of Jim’s chest.

“If that is true, I fear it may be my fault,” he said and Jim finally turned to look at him.

Legs crossed, hands clamped tightly around the knobs of his knees, tears gathered in his eyes at the edges of green-tinged rims, face a tight moue of sadness and horror... Jim lost his breath like he’d been run through the chest with something chilled and sharp. His heart clenched.

“Spock,” he croaked, guilty of once again making his First Officer, his Vulcan - his _fucking soulmate_ \- cry.

“No,” he affirmed in a whisper. “Nonono…”

He crawled across the bed straight into Spock’s lap, dragging the sheet with him and dislodging Spock’s hands which hit the bed, hanging dejectedly with the slump of his shoulders and the aversion of his gaze. Jim stopped him, cradling his jaw with both hands and tilting his face back, up, to meet him. Tears trailed down Spock’s cheeks from warm, sad eyes gazing apologetically into Jim’s own, begging forgiveness and seeking redemption. For what, Jim didn’t know.

Tarsus was shoved back into the locked box he kept it in.

“Hey,” Jim urged, thumb caressing the aggrieved pout that Spock’s lips had twisted into. “None of this is your fault. They’re my problems. Their existence and how I deal, or don’t, with them has nothing to do with you.”

“James—” Spock tried to protest and Jim shushed him.

“Spock, _listen_ ,” Jim implored. “Baby, this, none of this, is on you. Not a single thing. You didn’t force me to tell you. And you couldn’t have even if you had tried, yeah? There’s nothing you can do about me having nightmares. They come and they go. That's just how it is. As for you loving me, that isn’t your fault either. It isn’t an inconvenience. If anything, it’s a goddamned miracle—”

“ _James— Please, do not.”_

“Up against Uhura, I have no idea how we ended up here.” Jim’s lips curled into an involuntarily sarcastic smirk.

Hot hands angrily gripped his waist and Jim found himself jerked forward, Spock’s face mashed to the center of his chest.

“ _Do not_ ,” Spock growled. “You think to compare yourself to her. I love her, will always love her. She will always be important to me, bonded closely to me. You will never be able to touch that part of me.”

Jim knew he should have expected this. Did, actually. That didn’t make it hurt less.

“I can live without her. I have tasted her laughter and shouldered her sorrow and pain. I’ve drunk deeply of her beauty. We learned one another in ways only those bonded in marriage do. And if I were to lose her, I would live. I would hurt but I would live. If I were to lose you, _t’hy’la_ , I would die. Even if my body continued to breathe and my heart continued to beat, I would die. I would lose a piece of myself and it would be permanent and hollow.”

Jim slid his fingers into Spock’s glossy locks and held on under the gravity of this moment.

“You will never touch what I have with Nyota, but you will encompass it. You have already woven yourself into my very being, James. You will surround everything that I am, and I will you. For you to compare yourself to her in such a manner—”

Spock rumbled.

“Especially after revealing such things.”

Spock tipped his head up, pressed his forehead to Jim’s jaw, and huffed.

“Do not seek to _console_ me for loving you, as though you are beneath it. _Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, t’hy’la._ I cherish thee, more than life itself.”

Spock surged forward, pushing Jim back, down into the twisted sheets and following him.

“I _cherish_ thee,” he whispered into Jim’s neck, pawing the sheet aside until there was nothing separating them once again. “I _treasure_ you. I will safeguard what you have given me, beyond death.”

He blanketed Jim with his inferno of a body, skin lighting up Jim’s nerve endings and making Jim arch up into it.

“I have never been more wrong about a person in my life. For every offense I have committed against you, ni’droi’ik nar-tor. Please forgive me. Please.”

“Spock,” Jim murmured, not sure what he could say to that.

“If ever you decide to show me, I will be honored with your trust in witnessing it. I am sorry. I understand, now, just how out of line I was to say the things I did at your hearing.”

“You didn’t know.”

“That does not excuse my behavior. I was condescending and provoking and it was obvious already from your repeated attempts at the Kobayashi Maru that you had taken it personally. There was a right way to handle the situation and my response was not it.”

“I cheated. I broke the rules.”

“You continued to fight in the face of certain defeat. You faced death and refused to accept it as the only option. You showed honor. We were in the wrong to continue to let you try to find the other option in a test that had no other. It was only a test. Nothing more and nothing less. You should have been commended for creative thinking when you beat it and your behavior should have been flagged and addressed one on one in a private setting.”

Jim’s previously warm mood soured and went cold.

“Don’t think to give me preferential treatment _now_. Nothing has changed,” he spat.

“ _Everything_ has changed,” Spock breathed, hovering over Jim in a way that bracketed him in between his arms. He gazed hotly down into Jim’s eyes, his thick black hair falling forward just enough to dishevel his bangs even more than they were before. Jim froze, his ire dissipating beneath that look.

“I see you, now. I know you. What I see is devastating. You are a brilliant, brave, beautiful being who deserves to be treated as such.”

And Jim was weak.

Anger forgotten, he surged up against Spock. It was impossible not to kiss him after praise such as that. Jim was weak and now Spock knew. (But maybe that was okay.)

Spock deepened the kiss, devouring him in a breathless tangle of tongues. Jim whimpered under the assault, fingers clinging to his shoulders.

“Let me ‘return the favor’ from this morning,” Spock murmured, moving down Jim’s neck, lighting his blood on fire.

Jim was weak.

And helpless beneath Spock’s ministrations.

But that was okay.

He trusted Spock.

Spock would be strong for him.

He turned his head and gasped into his bicep.

 

_Later_

 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kiddin’ me!”

“Hello to you, too, Bones.”

Bones’ eyes flashed dangerously and his lips twisted, twitching up slightly on one side in a smothered snarl.

“Don’t you fuckin’ start with me, Jim,” he snapped before stepping beyond the partition and yelling in the direction of the fresher door. “I suggest you clear out ‘til ’m done, Spock! Because I swear on my Pa’s grave, that if I see your face right now, I _will_ knock you so far out, your head’ll spin and y’ain’t gettin’ up for a week.”

“Striking another officer is grounds for court martialing,” Spock calmly called from the fresher where he was presumably. . .freshening up.

“Who said anything about hitting you,” Bones mumbled and stepped back around the partition.

“He heard you, you know,” Jim said, watching him drop his bag on the bed.

“Does my face look like I give even half of a shit? Because it's lying, if it does.”

The fresher door closed and they heard the entrance from it into Spock’s room hiss open.

“Jesus wept, Jim, look at you!”

Jim shifted his crossed legs and straightened the sheet across his naked lap out to be less draping and more. . .covering.

“What? Everything important is covered.”

“My god, man! Not that! I couldn’t care less ‘bout your junk! I’m talkin’ about the bruising! You look like you’ve been attacked, Jim!”

“I mean. . .”

“Don’t even go there! I don’t need to know!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything!” Jim defended and put his hands up placatingly.

“‘ _Court martialing!’_ I should put in for him to be court martialed for this shit! Not even two days since you were released from medbay and I’m being called up here to look you over for what? What, Jim? Did he attack you? You need to tell me if he forced—”

“What the _fuck_ , Bones!”

“He was actin’ funny for days before you were released, Jim! Aggressive and possessive. And then I come here to see you _covered in bruising_ like maybe you’ve been restrained! I’m more’n a little concerned! Fuck! I should've done sumptin' before you were released! Knocked him out or locked 'im up to prevent him from—”

“Shut. your. mouth,” Jim enunciated darkly, blue gaze steely in a way that had Bones faltering in his anger. He was silent as he had a slight flashback to when they’d had Khan on board in the brig. “You have _no_ idea what’s going on between us and no _fucking right_ to accuse—”

The heat of Bones’ anger licked up the inside of his gut, flaring back to roaring life.

“ _I_ have no right!? I have _more fuckin'_ right ‘n most! _Christ_ , Jim!”

Bones snorted, so furious he wanted to grab his friend by the biceps and shake him. Hard.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been dreamin’ about! How long’ve I known? We’ve been friends what? Five? Six? Years? And I’ve known for a little less ’n that, you’d say? I know what goes on in that thick head of yours! An’ I’ve known for awhile, now, that sumpin’s been goin’ on between the two of ya. How do I know y’re not bein’ takin’ advantage of here? Y’ve been exhausted and vulnerable and y’ave feelin’s for the damn hobgoblin.”

Bones took a step toward Jim and jabbed him in the collar where there were teeth-shaped bruises clustered together.

“What do I have to go off, right now, that makes _this_ —” He jabbed Jim again for emphasis. “—okay?”

Jim was stony and silent under Bone’s tirade, dropping his chin when he was poked. He caught sight of the - frankly wicked - hickeys on his skin.

“Do you trust him?” He asked, very evenly and very quietly.

“What?”

“I asked if you trust him. Spock.”

“Well in what context are we referrin’ to?”

“Life. My life. Yours. Do you trust him?”

Bones was silent. They both knew the answer to that. The three of them wouldn’t have gotten along as well as they had so far out in the black if it wasn’t an unequivocal ‘yes.’

“And what about me, Bones? Do you trust me?”

“Same context? Because I gotta say, when it comes to hidin’ something botherin’ you, I don’t have a lick of trust in you.”

“So you don’t trust me to know what’s good for me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. I’m sayin’ I don’t trust you not to throw yourself under the wheel for the people you care about!”

Jim was unmoving. Silent.

“Jesus, Jim,” Bones whispered and nearly collapsed onto the bed in front of his friend. “This isn’t— You scare me, Jim. Every goddamned day. You find new and interesting ways to scare the ever-lovin’ shit outta me. Your heart’s too big, kid. And that scares me the most, because it seems the only one outside of it is your own damn fool self. I’ve already had to bring you back from the dead once, Jim. There’re no guarantees I can do it again. Don’— Don’t make me try again.”

They were quiet together, waiting. Until Bones saw it. A tiny, dark circle on the sheet across Jim’s lap. Then there was the partially suppressed trembling. Bones’ heart dropped into his gut.

“Ah, hell, Jim,” he muttered and leaned over, throwing an arm around Jim’s shoulders to pull him into his chest. Jim sucked in a sharp breath. His only response was to turn his face into Bones’ shoulder, back heaving with his silent sobs.

“I wasn’t tryin’a hurt ya, kid,” he mumbled into disheveled, burnished gold locks. Jim gave a minute shake of his head.

“Weren’t,” he choked out, muffled into Bones’ scrubs.

“Ah,” Bones uttered. The other thing then. A different kind of hurt.

They sat in silence for several long minutes after that, Bones offering support and Jim trying to compose himself enough to pull away. Finally, with a small sniffle, Jim sat back and straightened up, eyes damp and red-rimmed. He took a deep breath and rubbed them with the heels of his hands while Bones waited just a bit more.

“We okay?” He asked when Jim exhaled with a loud _whoosh_.

“Yeah,” Jim said, nodding. “We’re okay. If you apologize for accusing Spock of raping me.”

“Like hell,” Bones snapped without any heat. “I have a right as your doctor and your friend—”

“Bones. It was uncalled for.” Jim dropped his hands to glare at the doctor.

“Was it? Really?”

“Bones.”

“...Fine. I let my fear get the best of me. I’m sorry for accusing Spock of behaving untowardly with you. Happy?”

“No,” Jim chuckled without any mirth. “Not even close, right now. Furthest thing from it. But I do feel better. Was there a reason besides that, that you’re here for?”

“Yeah, you nitwit. I’m supposed to be checking you over! Which is what _started_ this whole thing.”

“Might as well get on with it, then, I s’pose. Since _Spock_ was the one who insisted and everything—”

“ _I get it, Jim._ I was wrong. Christ on a cracker. . .”

Bones reached for his medkit and removed his medical tricorder to run it over Jim who sat patiently so the checkup wouldn’t take longer than necessary.

“Well,” Bones said after a moment. “As per usual for this type of activity, you’ve got some exhaustion and negligible dehydration, some muscle strain, and just your average, run-o-the-mill bruising. Onto your stomach.”

“Bones,” Jim protested. “C’mon. I’m fine. Right?”

Bones shook his head. “As the CMO of this ship, I know a bit about Vulcan biology. Onto your stomach.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jim groused, pulling a pillow over and arranging it so he could throw himself over the fluffy mass and have it under his hips. Which he then proceeded to do, pillowing his head on his crossed arms, facing away from the doctor. Bones pulled on a pair of gloves and tapped the back of Jim’s leg, the leg on the side of his body that matched the direction his head was turned.

“Knee,” he ordered and, with an eyeroll and a sigh, Jim curled his leg up.

“Deep breath,” Bones muttered distractedly, one hand placed at Jim’s lower back and the other between Jim’s legs. Jim took it, felt the press of a finger, released it as the finger slid inside, and forced himself to stay relaxed through the uncomfortable sensation of his best friend feeling around in his ass.

When Bones withdrew, he stripped his gloves and tossed them into the trash can still next to Jim’s bed as he spoke.

“I’m gonna use the dermal wand,” he stated and Jim lifted his head to look over his shoulder with a frown.

“What? Is there something wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” Bones said, pulling the dermal regenerator from his bag along with a specific wand extension. And another couple gloves which he pulled on. “Minor tearing, swelling, abrasion... Exactly what I was expecting, but with how weak your immune system’s been recently, I’d rather be safe than sorry. If I heal it all up right now, I don’t have to worry.”

“Ugh,” Jim scoffed, dropping back down.

Bones rolled his own eyes and connected the wand before rolling a basic polyisoprene condom over it. Medical grade lubricant followed and he placed the tip to Jim’s anus. His clean hand fell to Jim’s lower back again and Jim didn’t need to be told to take a deep breath before doing it. Bones slid the wand in all the way with one smooth push. Jim grunted in discomfort.

Then it was turned on and his discomfort levels went up about two notches.

“This never quits being awkward,” Jim muttered into his elbow.

“Quit having rough sex,” Bones said and Jim scoffed. “There’re these little things called consequences, Jim. When you make a decision, you reap the consequences - good and bad. This just happens to fall closer to bad on that scale when it comes to your preferred bedroom activities.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bones,” Jim grumbled, lacking any animosity. The regenerator gave a soft, beeping jingle and flashed a little green light. Bones shut it off and gently worked the wand free of Jim’s body. The condom was discarded, the wand placed in a baggie for cleaning later, and, after wiping up the slight mess he’d made on Jim’s skin with an antibacterial wetnap, his gloves followed the rest of the mess into the trash.

“All done,” he announced with a slap of his hands to his knees.

Jim was quiet for a beat and then he said, “I told him.”

Bones frowned, trying to puzzle out what Jim meant.

“Spock? Told him what?” He asked.

Jim shifted up onto one elbow, turning partially onto his side to face Bones. He pulled the sheet back over his hips to hide.

“Tarsus,” Jim whispered, dropping his eyes. “I told him about Tarsus.”

Bones forgot to breathe. He went still like a small creature caught under the gaze of a larger predator. They never talked about it. Bones knew. Jim knew that Bones knew. But ever since that time, ever since that one time Bones had said the name out loud and Jim fucking dropped off the map for half a week, they didn’t talk about it. As far as Bones knew, outside of his medical report and Starfleet statements, Jim had never talked about it.

What the fuck was he supposed to say?

“I have no idea whether that was a smart decision on my part, what with how much shit we could both get into for it. And for myself. I guess I’ll find out with, like, time. But he knows. None of the details. I tried to. . .keep it to just facts, mostly. So he knows, but he doesn’t like, _know..._ ”

Bones carefully breathed out, too tentative about this tiny window into this part of his friend to be loud, even with his breath.

“I don’t know if he’ll ever know. Do you think Starfleet would think it was weird to put in a request for my First Officer to have access to my unrestricted file? Would that seem suspicious in some way? I mean, I guess I could just...show...him. Maybe. Does it seem impersonal to just give him my file and then avoid him for a month?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Bones croaked, still trying to recover from his shock. “Do you want that? Do you want him to know about all of it, Jim?”

“I—” Jim glanced up at him and then quickly back down, his hands fiddling with a fold in the sheet beneath him. “Not really, no. But also, yes. Just, kind of. I don’t know. I’m. . .afraid, of what the information might do.”

“Jim,” Bones said, trying to convey reassurance and the deep affection he felt for his friend. He reached out and stilled Jim’s restless fingers. “Put it down.”

Jim frowned in confusion for half a second before it smoothed away into understanding. He couldn’t carry this with him.

“You’re okay right now. You let him know the basics. He’s aware and right now, if that’s what you felt was best, that’s all that needs to be done. I’d say you’d already gone the extra mile here. You just got together. Kinda. Shelve it for now. Forget about it. Let yourself come down. Your focus needs to be on the ship and, I hate to say it, Spock. You have a new dynamic with him you’re gonna have to learn to navigate around both as a person and the captain of this ship. Give yourself time and space to process, but don’t hold onto this.”

Bones leaned over and pressed his forehead to Jim’s

“Don’t do that to yourself again. Not after you’ve busted ass to get here. Self-sabotage is not a valid career choice.”

A short laugh burst from Jim, a desperate edge of self-deprecation threaded through it.

He threw the arm he wasn’t leaning on around Bones’ neck and squeezed.

“What would I do without you, Bones,” he whispered and pressed a dry, chaste kiss to the stubbly hollow of Bones’ cheek.

“You’d be just fine, is what,” Bones stated, sitting back. But Jim caught his gaze with his impossibly blue, limpid eyes and they shared an understanding, grave look.

“Alright, kid, I better be getting back down to sickbay to finish off my shift.”

With that, he stood up and gathered up his closed kit. He’d pack it all back up correctly when he reached his office.

“Love you, Bones,” Jim called out as he headed for the door.

“Love ya, too,” Bones called back. “Oh! And let Spock know I’ll hunt him down if you two can’t control yourselves for the last few days I have you both off shift. You’re both cleared for light duty. But if I have to do this again in any capacity, I’m blaming him. He’s supposed to be the one with more control.”

“I’ll let him know!”

The door opened and Bones exited. As soon as it closed, the fresher door slid open and Spock entered Jim’s quarters.

“Have you been eavesdropping?”

“As there are no eaves on the Enterprise, I can safely say that I have not.”

“Besides being a liar, you’re using semantics to do it so you’re being a cheater too.”

Spock came around the partition, looking fresh and warm and completely put back together in his light meditation robes. Which somehow emphasized the definition in his arms and accentuated the soft mat of fur across his upper chest as it peeked out from beneath the vee of the collar. He was irresistible and Jim wasn’t in the mood to try anyway.

He raised up onto his knees and shuffled to the edge of the bed, reaching for Spock as he stepped closer. Spock’s hands landed on his sides, slid down to his waist. Jim tangled his fingers in Spock’s hair and dragged Spock down to meet him, standing on his knees.

Their lips met, slow and sweet, indulgent. For several long moments they exchanged long, plundering kisses, interspersed with shorter, sweet suckles. Jim leaned into Spock and Spock held him close. Jim completely forgot that he was naked. Even with the rawness left over from his conversation with Bones, he didn’t feel exposed pressed up against Spock.

“Did you really listen in?” Jim murmured into the corner of Spock’s mouth before taking it in a coaxing brush of his lips.

“I did not,” Spock murmured back, when Jim released him. They separated just enough to make eye-contact, and then Jim was falling back into it, until there was just the silk of Spock’s hair between his fingers, the slick slide of their lips and tongues, and the firm warmth seeping through Spock’s robe into Jim’s skin.

“I meditated,” Spock admitted in the space under Jim’s jaw, mouthing at it until Jim was hissing, breath hitching. There was static building under his skin, knotting itself up in the center of his chest.

“I will need to again, to process all that you have given me,” Spock said as he moved down the curve of Jim’s shoulder to the hollow of his collarbone. “I was listening for the lulls in your conversation and sensed when it would conclude. I stepped up to the fresher door just in time to hear Doctor McCoy’s threat to hunt me down.”

Spock leaned back and, oh, Jim’s stomach fluttered. His whiskey gaze glittered with hidden mischief and Jim swelled with pure adoration. His chest heaved.

The corner of Spock’s lips twitched and curled and Jim melted.

He kissed that almost-smile right off Spock’s face and took it for his own, lips curling up without his permission.

Spock’s arms reeled him in closer and he was warm, safe, full, and suffused with love.

In the dark recesses of his mind, he balled up that feeling and locked it away, glowing brightly in a hidden box.

For later.

Just in case.

Just because.

Just for safe keeping.

Spock drew him back to the present with blunt teeth at his pulse.

Jim sighed contentedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * nb -> non-binary -> covers genderqueer, genderfluid, gender non-conforming, agender, and intersex individuals who identify as neither boy nor girl (an intersex boy is still a boy, a trans girl is still a girl)
> 
> Alrighty. Hopefully that was the emotional fuckfest I wanted it to be. I don't even know. My brain is numb at this point.  
> Leave your comments and any possible questions for the end of this journey down below and I'll jump in for a discussion.  
> Seriously, if you have any parts that are too ambiguous I'll clear them right up. Also, I'd just like to say I love Bones and his sweet gooey southern heart hidden behind his grumpy callous demeanor. He doesn't get enough credit in a lot of Spirk fanfic and he really deserves all the awards.
> 
> I like to thank Bass Boosts and electronic music in general for making it easier for my brain to focus on editing without getting distracted.  
> I'd like to thank my bestie number two, hiddles, Uli, my dude, your chapter-by-chapter reviews were so supportive and life-giving. If you read through to this, thank you for making this journey.  
> And to everyone who commented, without your continued support, discussion, and love I would not have made it this far. Pat yourself on the back, hug yourself, or high-five yourself. Dealer's choice. Just, thank you.  
> Thank YOU TO EVERYONE WHO DROPPED A KUDOS I NEVER THOUGHT I'D HAVE HALF A THOUSAND!! Much love.
> 
> *throws confetti* AND TO ME I GIVE MYSELF ALL THE AWARDS FOR ACTUALLY FINISH A MULTI-CHAP FIC! No seriously, I've been writing fic for nearly a decade (with a small break here and there) and I have not finished anything longer than 3 chapters. (Mostly because a lot of it was dumb. Just, so, dumb.)
> 
> Man has this been a journey. Much love. Many thanks. Keep your eye out for more fics by me.  
> oooxxx<3<3<3


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